. 


tt&SB  LIBRARY 


THE  SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 


STORIES 


TOLD  TO  A  CHILD 


BY  JEAN  INGELOW 


BOSTON 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS 

1866 


BY  THE   SAME  AUTHOR. 


STUDIES  FOR  STORIES. 

A  Book  for  Girls.    i6mo,  cloth,  gilt.    Price  1.75. 

POOR  MATT,  or  The  Clouded  Intellect. 
A  Story.     iSmo,  cloth,  gilt.     Price  60  cents. 

POEMS. 

i6mo,  cloth,  gilt  top.     Price  I-75* 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS, 

PUBLISHERS, 

Boston. 


DEDICATED 


TO     MY     DEAREST     LITTLE 


EDITH, 


BY     HER     LOVING 


AUNT. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

The  Grandmother's  Shoe 9 

Two   Ways  of  telling  a  Story 37 

Little  Rie  and  the  Rosebuds 51 

Deborah's  Book 69 

The  Life  of  Mr.  John  Smith 87 

The  Lonely  Rock 97 

Can  and  Could. 107 

The  Suspicious  Jackdaw 115 

The  Minnows  with  Silver  Tails 139 

I  have  a  Right 149 

TJie  Moorish  Gold 161 

The  One-Eyed  Servant 185 

T/ie  Golden  Opportunity 191 

The  Wild- Duck  Shooter 217 


THE    GRANDMOTHER'S  SHOE. 

WHEN  I  was  a  child  at  school  (said  a  friend  of 
mine)  my  father  had  an  attack  of  typhus  fever ; 
he  had  quite  recovered  again,  and  it  was  near  the  time 
of  the  holidays,  when  two  servants  took  the  infection  ; 
my  parents,  fearful  of  conveying  it  to  me,  did  not 
write,  and  my  boxes  were  packed  before  I  knew  how 
I  was  to  be  sent  home. 

My  schoolfellows  were  gone,  and  in  a  disconsolate 
mood  I  was  gazing  into  the  square,  when  I  was  told 
to  come  into  the  drawing-room.  There,  in  place  of 
my  nurse,  who  generally  came  to  fetch  me,  I  saw 
a  stout,  comely  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends  ; 
she  was  eating  cake  and  wine  with  imperturbable 
gravity,  and,  when  she  had  set  down  her  glass,  and 
smoothed  out  her  gown  upon  her  lap,  she  held  out 
her  hand,  and  said  pleasantly,  — 

'  Does  thee  remember  me,  friend  ? ' 

I  looked  at  the  matronly  cloth  shawl,  the  bonnet, 
with  its  pure  white  lining,  the  smooth  gray  hair  and 
comfortable  face,  but  could  not  remember  where  I  had 
seen  them  before,  till  she  added,  '  What !  doesn't  thee 
remember  Thomas  W 's  housekeeper?' 


'MI  1C    GRANDMOTHERS    SHOE. 

Then  I  instantly  exclaimed  in  the  affirmative,  evi- 
dently to  the  great  relief  of  '  Madame,'  who  scarcely 
knew  what  to  make  of  her  grave  visitor,  and  did  not 
know  whether  she  would  trust  me  with  her. 

She  was  housekeeper  to  a  rich  Quaker  gentleman 
in  our  neighborhood,  with  whose  children  I  had  once 
or  twice  spent  the  day  in  haymaking  season,  and  her 
now  remembered  face  was  connected  with  visions  of 
svllabub,  strawberries,  and  other  delicacies  which  she 
had  served  to  us  among  the  haycocks. 

'  Thee  remembers ;  that's  well : '  she  then  added, 
'  thy  father  knows  I  am  come  for  thee  ;  friend  Thomas 
offered  to  take  thee  home  for'  a  while,  and  he  gladly 
consented.' 

Tears  came  into  my  eyes  at  the  thought  of  not  see- 
ing my  parents,  upon  which  she  said,  '  There's  Lucy, 
thee  knows,  and  James,  and  little  Martin,  to  play  with. 
Thy  good  parents  mean  to  let  the  young  women  be 
nursed  in  the  house,  as  they  gave  what  help  they  could 
when  thy  father  had  the  fever ;  so  thee  sees  there  is 
trouble  enough  without  thy  trying  to  add  to  it.'  With 
a  convulsive  effort  I  checked  my  sobs,  and  reflected 
that,  though  not  going  home,  I  was,  at  least,  leaving 
school,  and  that  was  something.  The  Friend  saw  my 
boxes,  dressed  me,  and  took  formal  possession  of  me 
and  them  ;  then  she  carried  me  off  in  a  post-chaise, 
remarking  that  she  expected  I  was  going  to  be  a  good 
child,  and  had  said  so  to  Lucy,  and  James,  and  Martin, 
when  she  came  to  fetch  me. 

Could  I  disappoint  Lucy,  and  James,  and  Martin  ? 
No,  certainly  not;  if  they  were  impressed  with  the 
10 


THE    GRANDMOTHERS    SHOE. 

notion  that  my  behavior  would  do  me  credit,  they 
should  find  it  so. 

This  was  a  ver-y  gor>d,  kind  Friend  ;  she  let  me  pay 
the  turnpikes  myself,  through  the  window  ;  she  bought 
buns  for  me  ;  and,  by  dint  of  questioning  her,  I  dis- 
covered that  Lucy,  and  James,  and  Martin  had  got  a 
pony,  a  donkey,  some  guinea-pigs,  gardens  of  then- 
own,  a  swing,  and  O,  joy  of  joys,  a  little  mill  that 
would  go  round  and  grind  corn. 

By  the  time  I  had  been  welcomed  in  this  hospitable 
house,  and  had  helped  to  grind  corn  in  the  marvellous 
mill,  I  was  only  a  little  sorrowful ;  and  by  the  time  I 
had  laid  my  head  on  the  pillow,  in  a  tiny  bedroom 
next  to  Lucy's,  I  felt  very  much  reconciled  to  my  fate, 
though  I  knew  that  I  should  probably  sleep  there 
several  weeks. 

I  was  ten  years  old,  and  Lucy,  a  prim  little  crea- 
ture, was  about  the  same  age  ;  her  brothers  wrere  quite 
little  children  ;  the  other  members  of  the  family  con- 
sisted of  a  grandmother  —  a  very  stern,  severe  person, 
whom  I  greatly  dreaded  —  the  master  of  the  Ijpuse 
(her  son),  concerning  whom  I  only  knew  that  he  was 
extremely  kind  and  benign  to  us,  and  that  he  was  a 
widower ;  and,  lastly,  his  eldest  daughter,  the  child 
of  his  first  marriage,  a  sweet  girl,  little  more  than 
twenty  years  old,  but  wearing  already  the  clear,  high 
cap  in  which  a  really  pretty  face  looks  prettier  than 
in  almost  anything  else,  and  having  about  her  the 
peculiar  self-possession  and  composure  of  manner  so 
often  seen  among  those  of  her  society. 

Lucy  and  I  were  a  source  of  great  interest  to  one 
another ;  we  liked  to  be  together,  because  of  the  dif- 

ii 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

fcrent  manner  in  which  we  had  been  taught  to  express 
ourselves.  Yv'e  examined  each  other's  clothes,  and 
when  we  had  a  convenient  opportunity  tried  them  on. 
When  this  amusement  failed  we  unpacked  my  toys, 
but  none  of  them  pleased  Lucy  till  we  came  to  two 
good-sized  dolls,  dressed  in  the  ordinary  costume  of 
British  babies ;  these  we  no  sooner  found  than  we 
thought  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  dress  them  up 
in  complete  suits  of  Friends'  clothes.  It  Was  a  very 
rainy  day  ;  so  we  went  to  the  eldest  daughter — '  sister,' 
as  the  children  called  her  —  and  asked  her  for  some 
pieces  of  silk,  and  scraps  of  cloth.  She  was  very 
bountiful,  and  gave  us  some  pieces  of  ribbon  besides. 
We  took  our  treasures,  our  little  red  work-boxes,  and 
the  dolls,  to  a  room  in  the  roof — a  large,  partially 
empty  place,  where  we  were  sometimes  allowed  to 
play  —  and  there,  with  infinite  care  and  pains,  we 
made  each  of  them  a  dove-colored  silk  gown  of  the 
most  approved  shape,  a  muslin  handkerchief,  a  three- 
cornered  brown  shawl,  and  a  proper  silk  bonnet. 
When  the  clothes  were  finished,  we  wetted  the  hair 
of  the  dolls  to  take  out  the  curl,  and  then  dressed  them, 
and  took  them  down  into  the  hall,  where  we  walked 
about  with  them  by  way  of  giving  them  an  airing.  I 
never  saw  Lucy's  father  laugh  heartily  but  once,  and 
it  was  on  that  occasion ;  the  sight  of  the  '  Puppet 
Friends,'  as  he  called  them,  quite  overcame  his  habit- 
ual gravity  ;  unluckily,  we  presently  met  Lucy's  grand- 
mother, who  was  far  from  regarding  them  with  the 
same  good-humored  indulgence,  and  it  was  a  painful 
fact  to  us,  at  the  time,  that  after  we  were  gone  to 
bed,  the  '  Puppet  Friends '  mysteriously  disappeared. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  SHOE. 

Where  they  went  to  we  never  could  discover,  though 
we  shrewdly  suspected  that  the  grandmother  knew ; 
but  the  mystery  was  never  cleared  up  till  after  I 
returned  to  school,  when  I  found  them  among  my 
clothes,  neatly  wrapped  in  silver  paper,  but  divested 
of  their  Quaker  clothing. 

I  passed  a  happy  week,  and  on  Sunday  was  sent  to 
spend  the  day  at  the  parsonage.  About  six  in  the 
evening  I  was  brought  back,  and  Lucy,  and  James, 
and  Martin  ran  out  to  meet  and  welcome  me  in  rather 
a  more  noisy  and  riotous  fashion  than  suited  the  day ; 
We  were  pursuing  one  another  round  the  flower-beds 
when  '  sister'  made  her  appearance  at  the  window, 
and  calling  to  us,  reproved  us  gently  for  our  mirth, 
saying  to  me,  '  What  would  thy  good  mother  think, 
if  she  could  see  thee  just  now  ? '  She  then  set  the 
youngest  child  upon  a  chair,  smoothed  his  soft  hair, 
and  said  to  him,  with  a  quietness  of  manner  which 
soon  communicated  itself  to  him,  '  Thee  must  not  for- 
get whose  day  this  is  ;  sit  there.  I  am  going  to  read 
to  thee  and  James  about  little  Samuel  in  the  temple.' 

She  then  took  up  two  Bibles,  and  gave  Lucy  and 
me  a  parable  to  learn  by  heart,  sending  us  up  to  the 
room  in  the  roof,  and  saying,  that  when  she  thought 
we  had  had  time  to  learn  it  she  should  come  and  hear 
us  say  it. 

Up  stairs  Lucy  and  I  accordingly  went  to  the  room 
in  the  roof,  the  aspect  of  which  is  still  as  vividly  im- 
pressed on  my  mind  as  if  I  had  seen  it  only  yesterday. 
It  was  a  very  long  room,  and  had  a  sloping  roof,  but 
there  was  no  carpet  on  it,  and  no  furniture,  excepting 
two  square  stools,  on  which  Lucy  and  I  sat.  The  case- 

13 


THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  SHOE. 

ment  windows,  both  open,  for  it  was  hot,  afforded  a 
fine  view  over  the  country  ;  from  these  we  could  look 
down  into  the  tops  of  some  elm  trees,  and  see  a  mother 
rook  feeding  her  young  in  the  nest. 

At  the  opposite  end  to  this  the  floor  was  raised  one 
step,  and  across  this  raised  part  was  drawn  a  heavy 
red  curtain,  so  as  to  enclose  it  and  the  oriel  window 
within  it,  and  make  them  almost  into  a  distinct  apart- 
ment. We  were  forbidden  to  enter  this  desirable  little 
place,  because  it  was  considered  to  belong  specially 
to  the  grandmother ;  but  I  had  peeped  into  it  several 
times,  when  the  curtain  was  partly  undrawn,  and  seen 
a  little  table  with  a  great  Bible  upon  it,  an  arm-chair, 
and  a  stand  of  flowering  balsams  and  geraniums. 

The  circumstance  that  this  little  retreat  belonged 
to  the  grandmother  made  me,  in  common  with  her 
descendants,  regard  it  with  something  like  awe.  I 
cannot  quite  understand  why  we  so  much  feared  this 
old  lady  ;  she  did  not  punish  us  ;  she  did  not  scold  us  ; 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  we  were  daunted  by  the 
general  air  of  disapproval  with  which  she  regarded  us, 
more  than  by  any  fear  that  she  would  manifest  it  in 
deeds  or  words. 

However  good  we  might  be,  still  we  were  ONLY 
children.  We  actually  felt  ashamed  of  ourselves  in 
her  presence  to  think  that  we  were  children !  We 
knew  we  could  not  help  it,  it  was  an  inevitable  dis- 
pensation, but  she  did  not  appear  to  think  so  ;  she 
sometimes  had  the  appearance  of  thinking  that  we 
i-ould  help  it  if  we  liked,  and  were  children  on 
purpose ! 
-  Children  are  inferior  beings ;  we  felt  that,  and  were 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

humble.  We  are  beings  whose  nature  it  is  to  crumple 
tucks,  make  finger-marks  on  doors,  run  instead  of 
walking,  to  be  troublesome  and  want  looking  after,  to 
play  with  toys  and  break  them.  In  fact,  if  one  only 
considers  this  subject,  children  take  more  nursing, 
more  looking  after,  than  one  supposes  ;  one  generation 
is  almost  entirely  occupied  in  teaching,  bringing  up, 
and  providing  for  the  next.  Children,  in  some  way  or 
other,  make  the  talk,  the  care,  and  the  work  for  their 
elders ;  and  if  such  a  thing  as  an  elder  is  now  and 
then  found  who  does  not  like  children,  what  an  un- 
lucky thing  it  is  for  both  parties? 

But  to  leave  these  speculations.  The  sun  was 
shining  in  at  the  oriel  window  when  Lucy  and  I  en- 
tered the  long  white-washed  room  on  that  memorable 
Sunday  evening.  The  red  curtain  was  half  drawn, 
and  it  cast  a  delightful  glow  over  the  wall ;  we  could 
not  see  the  window,  but  we  knew  it  was  open,  because 
a  slight  waft  of  air  from  it  now  and  then  swayed  the 
curtain  up  and  down,  and  floated  the  fallen  leaves  of 
geraniums  across  the  bare  floor. 

We  sat  down  at  a  distance  from  the  curtain,  each 
on  one  of  the  low  stools.  Lucy  smoothed  out  her 
clean  frock  over  her  knees,  set  her  little  feet  together, 
folded  her  arms,  and  counted  her  verses ;  there  were 
ten.  She  produced  from  her  pocket  a  Tonquin  bean, 
two  slate  pencils,  and  seven  ivory  buttons ;  these  she 
laid  out  on  the  floor  beside  her,  taking  up  one  and 
returning  it  to  her  pocket  for  each  verse  that  she  knew  ; 
this,  she  said,  made  it  much  easier  to  learn  them.  Not 
to  be  behindhand  with  her,  and  having  some  faith  in 
the  plan,  I  gathered  up  ten  geranium  leaves  for  the 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

same  purpose,  and  we  both  set  to  work  to  learn  our 
verses  with  great  diligence  and  gravity. 

For  some  time  we  persevered,  but  it  was  a  very 
warm  evening,  which,  in  addition  to  our  being  chil- 
dren, was,  perhaps,  the  reason  why,  at  last,  we  began 
to  yawn,  and  to  fidget,  and  then  to  compare  notes  as 
to  how  much  we  had  each  learned. 

Lucy's  bean  and  pencils  had  gone  back  into  her 
pocket,  but  her  buttons  lay  still  in  a  shining  row. 
We  bent  our  eyes  again  upon  our  books  —  one  button 
went  into  Lucy's  pocket.  Then  we  took  a  rest,  and 
watched  how  far  the  little  wafts  of  wind  were  floating 
in  the  leaves  ;  a  great  red  leaf  was  following  two  deli- 
cate white  ones ;  it  seemed  to  pursue  them ;  it  was  a 
lion  running  after  two  lambs ;  now  they  lay  still,  and 
the  lion  was  watching  his  prey  ;  now  they  were  borne 
a  little  farther  ;  now  the  lion  was  just  upon  them,  in 
another  instant  they  would  be  overtaken.  Lucy  could 
not  bear  to  see  the  catastrophe  that  her  own  imagina- 
tion had  suggested,  and  darted  across  the  room  to 
rescue  the  two  white  lambs  ;  then  I  related  to  her 
Mrs.  Cameron's  story  of  '  The  Two  Lambs,'  and  by 
the  time  it  was  finished  we  had  so  far  forgotten  our- 
selves that  we  went  on  talking  and  chattering  as  if  the 
Bibles  had  not  been  lying  open  on  our  knees,  and  as 
if  it  had  not  been  Sunday  evening,  and  as  if  we  had 
neither  of  us  been  taught  any  better. 

Oblivious  also  that  there  was  such  a  person  as  a 
grandmother  in  the  world,  we  had  been  talking  about 
my  blue  sash,  and  Lucy  wished  she  had  one  like  it. 
We  talked  about  Lucy's  lessons,  and  I  wished  I  was  a 
Friend,  that  I  might  escape  from  learning  music.  We 
16 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

talked  about  the  two  dolls,  about  Lucy's  sister,  and  my 
mamma,  which  was  the  most  indulgent,  and  which 
•was  the  prettiest.  We  talked  about  what  we  intended 
to  do  when  we  were  grown  up.  Last  of  all,  as  I  well 
remember,  we  talked  about  the  grandmother  herself, 
her  best  gown,  her  walking-stick,  how  upright  she  sat, 
what  a  trouble  she  thought  us,  whether  there  was  any 
chance  of  her  going  to  Ireland  to  visit  her  other  son  ; 
how  she  often  said  to  father,  '  Thomas,  thy  children 
ought  to  be  kept  stricter  —  stricter,  Thomas;'  how, 
once  when  she  said  it,  father  had  smiled,  and  then 
grandmother  had  said,  '  Thomas,  I  fear  thou  art  a 
light  man.'  '  And  we  saw  father  smile,'  said  Lucy, 
shrewdly  ;  but  the  words  were  scarcely  uttered  when 
the  smile  died  out  from  her  own  face,  and  a  sudden 
blush  mounted  to  her  forehead.  '  What  is  it,  Lucy  ? 
what's  the  matter?'  I  exclaimed.  Lucy  sat  as  still  as 
if  she  scarcely  dared  to  breathe  ;  she  seized  my  arm 
to  check  me,  and  pointed  towards  the  curtain.  Alas  ! 
shame  and  fear  soon  flushed  my  face  as  red  as  her 
own,  for  the  terrible  conviction  struck  us  that  the 
grandmother  was  behind  it ;  the  curtain  had  been 
blown  a  little  backwarder  than  before  by  the  summer 
wind,  and  peering  beyond  it  in  the  sunshine  was  the 
toe  of  a  shoe  that  could  belong  only  to  the  grand- 
mother ! 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  sensations  of  the  next  few 
minutes,  nor  the  sudden  silence  that  succeeded  to  our 
childish  and  profitless  talk.  We  did  not  expect  to  sit 
there  long ;  every  moment  we  looked  for  a  summons 
from  her  to  come  into  her  presence  and  receive  the 
lecture  which  we  knew  we  so  richly  deserved ;  but 

'7 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

when  that  imperturbable  shoe  had  kept  its  position  a 
little  longer,  we  almost  wished  she  would  break  the 
silence,  that  this  fearful  suspense  might  be  ended. 
But  no,  she  neither  stirred  nor  spoke  ;  the  most  per- 
fect quiet  reigned  ;  there  was  only  a  slight  rustle  now 
and  then,  which  might  be  the  turning  over  of  a  page, 
and  which  we  had  heard  before,  supposing  it  to  be 
only  the  curtain. 

We  did  not  know  what  to  do,  we  wrere  so  miserable; 
We  gazed  intently  through  the  red  folds  of  the  drapery, 
and  could  see,  by  a  dark  shadow,  that  the  chair  was 
occupied.  O  that  we  had  but  been  wise  enough  to 
notice  this  before !  We  withdrew  our  eyes,  and,  with 
one  tearful  look  of  condolence  at  one  another,  dropped 
them  again  upon  our  verses,  and  began  to  learn  them 
with  extreme  diligence  and  humility.  But  still  the 
inexorable  grandmother  never  spoke.  O,  how  star- 
tling would  be  her  voice  when  it  came  ! 

Not  a  word  either  of  us  said  for  a  long  time.  At 
length  Lucy  observed,  in  a  humble,  saddened  voice, 
'  I  know  my  parable  ;  Sophia,  dost  thou  ? ' 

I  had  learned  mine  perfectly  for  some  time,  but 
neither  of  us  rose.  We  had  an  idea  that  the  first 
attempt  on  our  part  at  leaving  the  room  would  be  met 
by  the  dreaded  summons ;  we  were  already  enduring 
punishment  of  a  very  severe  nature  ;  our  cheeks  were 
dyed  with  shame,  and  our  hearts  beating  with  appre- 
hension. At  length  we  heard  a  distant  step  sedately 
and  steadily  mounting  the  stairs ;  now  it  was  coming 
along  the  imcarpcted  passage,  then  a  hand  was  on  the 
door,  and  '  sister '  entered,  asking  us,  with  her  usual 

18 


• 
THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  SHOE. 

sweet  gravity,  whether  we  knew  the  parable  she  had 
set  us. 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  evidently  surprised  by 
our  troubled,  shamefaced  expression  ;  but  she  asked 
no  question,  and,  to  our  utter  confusion,  advanced 
straight  to  the  curtain,  as  if  to  pull  it  back.  '  Sister, 
sister  ! '  exclaimed  Lucy,  springing  forward,  but  not 
in  time  to  prevent  what  she  was  doing ;  she  flung 
aside  the  curtain,  and  O,  inexpressible  relief  and 
astonishment,  no  grandmother  was  there ! 

We  had  both  risen ;  and  now  the  full  sunshine 
streamed  up  over  the  ceiling  and  rested  on  sisjter's 
quiet  forehead  ;  it  did  not  fall  low  enough  to  reach  us  ; 
we  were  left  in  shadow,  but  the  shadow  had  passed 
away  from  our  hearts.  She  said  to  Lucy,  '  Why  didst 
thou  check  me,  child?' 

Lucy  replied  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  '  I  thought  grand- 
mother was  there.' 

We  entered  the  little  sanctum,  saw  how  the  grand- 
mother's garden  shawl  and  bonnet  were  thrown  over 
the  chair,  remarked  her  garden  over-shoes,  which  had 
frightened  us,  the  scissors  with  which  she  had  dressed 
her  plants,  and  the  gloves  lying  beside  her  Bible  ;  then 
we  looked  at  one  another  with  feelings  of  gratitude,  and 
followed  sister  to  the  grandmother's  chair,  where  she 
sat  down  while  we  stood  before  her  and  repeated  our 
parable.  As  she  sat  there,  her  tall  figure  slightly  bend- 
ing forward,  the  open  Bible  lying  upon  her  knee,  her 
serene  eyes  fixed  on  ours,  and  the  sweet  sunshine 
touching  her  soft  hair  and  tranquil  forehead,  she  pre- 
sented a  picture  which  is  indelibly  impressed  upon  my 
memory,  together  with  a  sense  chat  I  had  of  the  con- 


•I'll]-;    (iKANDMOTHKK  S    SHOE. 

trust  between  her  peace  and  my  own  consciousness 
of  misdoing.  She  returned  the  Bibles  when  we  had 
finished,  saying  to  me  with  serious  sweetness,  '  I  am 
pleased  with  thcc ;  thou  hast  learned  thy  verses  well, 
and  said  them  reverently.' 

She  again  looked  at  us  as  if  puzzled  by  our  faces, 
and  then  she  rose  and  would  have  left  the  room,  when 
we  stopped  her,  for  her  praise  was  not  to  be  received 
when  we  knew  we  did  not  deserve  it.  We  asked  her 
to  sit  down  again,  and  then  half  laughing,  half  crying, 
related  the  whole  of  our  adventure ;  we  concealed 
nothing  ;  we  told  over  all  our  conversation,  how  we  had 
been  chattering  and  playing,  what  we  had  said  about 
the  grandmother,  our  terror  and  shame  when  we 
thought  we  were  in  her  presence,  and  our  indescriba- 
ble relief  when  we  found  she  was  not  there. 

Much  as  we  respected  sister,  we  so  wanted  her  to 
sympathize,  that,  though  we  knew  she  would  disap- 
prove of  our  behavior,  and  perhaps  reprove  us,  we  by 
no  means  softened  our  tale  in  the  relation,  but  described 
how  every  rustle  of  the  curtain  had  disturbed  our  guilty 
consciences  ;  how  we  had  sat  upright  on  our  seats,  not 
daring  to  look  about  us,  so  conscious  were  we  of  the 
grandmother's  presence,  even  though  we  knew  she 
could  not  see  r.s. 

Sister  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  an  ex- 
pression of  regret,  but  not  the  least  tendency  to  a 
smile.  '  I  thought  grandmother  would  never  forgive 
us,  and  she  would  tell  father,'  said  Lucy,  '  how  we  had 
played  and  laughed,  and  talked  about  her,  and  all  on 
First-day  evening.  I  was  so  ashamed  I  wouldn't  have 

20 


THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  SHOE. 

had  her  know  for  anything.  I  thought  I  should  never 
be  happy  again.' 

'  And,  after  all,'  I  added,  '  there  was  no  harm  done.' 

'  No  harm  ! '  said  sister,  quietly,  '  what  dost  thou 
mean  ? ' 

'  Why,  you  know,'  said  I,  carelessly,  '  the  grand- 
mother was  not  there.' 

'  Thou  heedless  child,'  she  answered,  with  that  look 
of  pity  and  regret,  '  art  thou  really  so  much  afraid  of 
my  grandmother,  and  dost  thou  wholly  forget  the  ear 
that  did  listen  to  thy  talking,  and  the  eye  that  'was 
upon  thee  all  the  time  ? ' 

We  both  looked  about  us,  at  the  curtain,  at  the 
places  where  we  had  been  sitting,  and  in  sister's  face, 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  the  presence  and  nearness  of 
God,  that  I  believe  we  had  never  felt  before.  When 
she  added,  '  What  wouldst  thou  have  done  if,  when  I 
drew  back  the  curtain,  thou  hadst  seen  the  Redeemer 
standing  there  ?  Shouldst  thou  have  said  then  there  is 
no  harm  done  ?  '  We  neither  of  us  answered  a  word, 
so  completely  were  we  surprised  into  awe  by  the  apt- 
ness of  this  word  in  season. 

'  Years  have  passed  since  then,'  said  my  friend, 
'  but  I-believe  the  effects  of  that  gentle  rebuke  have  not 
altogether  passed  away  with  them  ;  it  made  a  greater 
impression  upon  us  than  even  the  grandmother's 
anger  could  have  done,  however  great  that  might 
have  been.' 

When  '  sister '  had  left  us,  we  went  to  one  of  the 
open  casements,  and  I  well  remember  the  sensation  of 
repose  with  which  we  congratulated  one  another  on 

21 


TIIK  GRANDMOTHER'S  SHOE. 

the  grandmother's  not  having  been  present;  and 
though  the  consciousness  of  a  far  higher  presence  was 
strong  in  our  hearts,  we  experienced  also  somewhat 
of  that  feeling  which  made  King  David  say,  '  Let  us 
fall  now  into  the  hand  of  the  Lord,  and  let  us  not  fall 
into  the  hand  of  man.' 

In  our  childish  fashion  we  began  to  speculate  as  to 
how  we  should  behave  if  we  always  believed  and  re- 
membered that  the  Great  God  was  observing  us  ;  and 
then,  as  I  suppose,  most  children  have  done  at  some 
time  or  other,  we  suddenly  formed  a  resolution,  that 
from  that  day  forward  we  would  behave  quite  differ- 
ently ;  that  we  would  reform  all  our  faults,  never  be 
idle  over  our  lessons ;  nor  play  at  improper  tunes,  nor 
conceal  any  mischief  that  we  might  have  done  ;  nor 
tease  the  little  ones,  nor  hide  ourselves  in  the  shrub- 
beries when  we  knew  the  nurse  was  looking  for  us  to 
call  us  in  to  bed. 

In  short,  we  passed  in  review  all  our  childish  faults 
as  far  as  we  knew  them,  and  made  a  set  of  rules  for 
future  good  behavior. 

We  had  a  fashion  at  the  school  where  I  was  for 
writing  sets  of  rules ;  one  would  have  thought  the 
rule  under  which  we  lived  was  stringent  and  inflexible 
enough  ;  but  no,  we  copied  Madame's  favorite  phrase, 
'  I  shall  make  a  rule,  Jfes  Demoiselles,'  and  we  made 
more  rules  than  even  our  rulers. 

We  often  spent  part  of  one  half  holiday  in  writing 
rules  for  the  spending  of  the  next  —  elaborate  rules,  as 
to  how  long  we  would  play  with  our  dolls,  how  long 
\ve  would  spend  over  our  home  letters,  how  long  in. 
reading  our  story-books,  how  long  in  feeding  our  birds  ; 

22 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

in  short,  we  had  scarcely  one  half  hour  which  we  could 
call  our  own  that  we  did  not  hamper  with  rules  con- 
taining as  many  additions  and  subtractions  as  a  long 
division  sum.  I  had  imparted  this  fashion  to  Lucy, 
and  we  had  already  made,  and  altered,  and  broken 
several  sets  of  these  rules,  but,  on  that  delightful  Sun- 
day evening,  while  the  sun  was  sinking  into  the  distant 
sea,  and  reddening  the  sky,  the  water,  the  walls,  our 
white  frocks,  and  the  fluttering  leaves  of  our  Bibles, 
we  made  one  set  more.  The  particulars  of  them  I 
have  forgotten,  but  the  intention  formed,  in  all  childish 
simplicity,  was  to  help  us  to  keep  the  presence  of 
God  always  in  our  recollection. 

There  was  a  little  picture  in  one  of  my  books  which 
represented  Hagar  in  the  parched  wilderness  sitting 
apart  from  the  fainting  Ishmael ;  underneath  it  were 
the  words,  '  Thou,  God,  seest  me.'  This,  we  said,  we 
would  hang  on  the  -wall  opposite  to  our  two  stools, 
where  every  afternoon  we  sat  learning  our  lessons  for 
the  next  day,  or  doing  our  playwork,  as  we  called  it. 

How  little,  for  all  the  sympathy  of  love,  a  child  is 
known  to  his  elders !  How  little  during  the  ensuing 
week  our  childish  troubles,  our  wavering  endeavors  to 
do  right,  our  surprise  at  our  own  failures,  were  sus- 
pected in  that  orderly  household  !  The  days,  however, 
went  and  came,  and  our  rules  it  appeared  must  have 
had  some  real  influence  over  us,  for  I  well  remember 
that  the  nurse  and  housekeeper  commended  us  to 
'  sister '  as  '  excellent  good  children,  as  toward,  friend, 
as  thee  would  wish  to  see.'  The  restrictions  which 
we  had  laid  upon  ourselves  were  not  light  ones  for 
children  to  observe,  and,  though  they  only  bound  us  to 

23 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

do  our  duty,  it  was  not  wonderful  that  we  sometimes 
broke  through  them,  and  sometimes  lightly  forgot 
them,  considering  that  the  red  curtain  did  not  always 
hang  in  our  sight,  and  considering  that  childhood  and 
youth  are  vanity. 

Another  Sunday  evening  came  ;  we  learned  our  les- 
sons in  the  upper  room,  and  were  so  quiet  and  diligent 
that  the  presence  of  no  grandmother  in  the  world  could 
have  frightened  us. 

The  next  morning  we  were  awakened  early  by  the 
rooks  in  the  trees,  close  by  our  windows,  and  we  rose 
and  went  out  for  a  ramble  before  breakfast. 

Within  the  grounds,  which  were  laid  out  partly  in 
grass  and  flowers,  and  partly  in  shrubbery,  there  was 
a  walled  fruit-garden  ;  and  this  we  were  only  permit- 
ted to  enter  on  the  express  understanding  that  we  were 
on  no  pretence  to  gather,  or  to  pick  up,  or  to  touch 
any  of  the  fruit ;  '  not  so  much '  (so  '  sister '  phrased  it) 
'  as  a  fallen  gooseberry.' 

Fruit  was  always  given  to  us  once  during  the  day, 
but  the  father  of  the  family  was  extremely  particular 
about  his  trees,  and  suffered  no  fruit  to  be  gathered 
but  by  his  own  hand. 

I  was  told  of  this  regulation  at  once  by  the  children, 
and  when  Lucy  said  to  her  sister,  '  Did  thee  know  that 
Sophia  had  leave  to  gather  fruit  at  home  ? '  and  I  ex- 
claimed, that  I  did  not  wish  to  do  it  here,  and  was 
very  happy  ;  she  answered  with  her  usual  sweet  com- 
posure, '  Thee  need  not  blush  so  much,  I  know  thou 
art  in  general  a  reasonable  child.' 

'  I  don't  wish  for  anything,'  I  explained,  '  that  Lucy 
does  not  have.' 

24 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

'  That's  well,'  she  replied ;  '  we  desire  to  see  thee 
happy  and  satisfied  ;  but  thou  knowest  that  my  father 
considers  thee  under  his  authority  while  thou  art  here, 
and  will  not  alter  his  rule  for  thy  sake ;  but  as  thou 
hast  been  used  to  gather  fruit  for  thyself,  I  advise  thee 
not  to  go  into  the  fruit-garden,  if  thou  art  tempted  to 
transgress.  There  are  other  walks  where  thou  canst 

O 

bowl  thy  hoop.' 

'  I  wonder  you  should  suppose  such  a  thing,'  I  in- 
terrupted, quite  vexed  at  her  plain  speaking,  and  the 
implied  supposition  that  I  could  be  tempted  to  such  a 
greedy  and  disobedient  act. 

She  smiled  at  my  speech,  but  there  was  nothing  sar- 
castic in  the  smile  ;  and  she  answered,  '  I  do  not  sup- 
pose thee  to  be  any  better  than  thy  first  mother ;  yet 
she  was  tempted  with  an  apple.' 

'  And  apples  are  not  half  so  good  as  plums,'  ob- 
served one  of  the  little  brothers,  sagely  nodding  his 
head. 

'  No  one  asked  for  thy  opinion,'  said  my  champion 
Lucy,  in  a  low  voice ;  '  does  thee  wish  Sophia  to  be 
kept  out  of  the  garden  ? ' 

Sister  cut  the  conference  short,  by  giving  us  each  a 
piece  of  seed-cake,  and  sending  us  out  with  general 
directions  to  be  good,  and  not  get  into  mischief;  and 
there  was  such  ample  space  to  play  in,  and  we  had  so 
many  means  of  amusing  ourselves,  that  we  should  have 
been  more  culpable  than  most  children,  if  we  had  dis- 
obeyed them. 

The  garden,  with  all  its  walks,  the  orchard,  where 
we  sometimes  sauntered  early  in  the  morning,  and  saw 
the  greengages  which  had  fallen  in  the  night  lying 

2  25 


THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  SHOE. 

among  the  dewy  grass ;  the  rough  trunks  of  the  plum, 
trees  all  gray  with  lichen,  and  blue  above  with  partly 
ripe  fruit,  are  vividly  impressed  upon  my  recollection  ; 
as  well  as  the  frames  on  which,  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  we  sometimes  laid  our  hands  to  feel  how  hot  the 
glass  was ;  peeping  through  at  the  long  cucumbers 
and  plump  melons,  as  they  lay  basking  in  the  moist 
heat ;  or  following  the  gardener  when  he  walked 
round  with  his  tiles,  and  laid  them  carefully  under 
those  which  he  wished  to  ripen  first. 

I  also  remember,  as  if  it  had  happened  but  yester- 
day, how  we  used  to  run  to  meet  Lucy's  placid  father, 
as  he  came  leisurely  down  the  grass  walk,  to  have  his 
daily  colloquy  with  the  gardener  ;  how  he  gathered  and 
stored  the  ripe  pears  from  the  espaliers,  and  lifted  up 
the  leaves  from  the  wall  fruit  to  see  how  it  was  com- 
ing on  ;  how  he  would  lament  that  birds  should  be  such 
arrant  thieves,  and  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  old  gardener, 
when  he  muttered  that  there  was  but  one  way  to  cure 
them  of  it. 

Then  I  remember  the  cool  fruit-house,  into  which 
we  sometimes  helped  him  to  carry  summer  apples ; 
and  what  the  gardener  called  the  '  kippen  peers  ; '  but 
abbve  all  I  remember  a  certain  fine  young  apricot-tree, 
a  moor-park,  in  its  first  year  of  bearing,  and  how  every 
day  we  went  to  count  and  admire  upon  it  six  beautiful 
apricots,  and  no  more. 

Few  things  in  a  garden  are  more  beautiful  than 
ripening  apricots  ;  the  downy  surface,  the  rich  golden 
color,  speckled,  as  in  this  sort,  with  clear  red  spots,  and 
surrounded  by  pointed  leaves  of  most  glossy  green,  and 
broad  sunshine  that  bathed  them,  the  careful  training, — 

26 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

all  combined  to  make  us  take  a  peculiar  interest  in 
this  young  tree,  which  had  been  the  only  survivor 
among  several  of  the  same  sort  that  had  been  planted 
along  with  it. 

When  we  had  walked  all  round  with  Lucy's  father, 
he  used  to  take  up  a  flat  straw-basket,  lay  some  leaves 
of  curly  brocoli  in  it,  and  go  with  us  to  the  orchard, 
where  he  would  gather  some  ripe  greengages,  purple 
plums,  jargonel-pears,  with,  perhaps,  a  few  late  white- 
heart  cherries,  and  some  little  red  apples,  red  to  the 
very  core.  In  the  south  wall  of  the  garden  there  was 
a  door,  leading  into  a  place  they  called  the  wilderness  ; 
it  was  an  uncommonly  well-ordered  wilderness,  like 
everything  about  the  premises.  Through  this  door 
father  used  to  proceed  to  a  bench  under  the  trees, 
where  he  caused  us  to  sit  down  in  a  row,  while  he 
divided  the  fruit  equally  among  us. 

There  was  no  underwood  in  this  delightful  retreat ; 
the  trees  composing  it  were  elms,  thickly  boughed 
plants  to  shelter  us  from  the  sun,  but  not  to  prevent 
the  elastic  mossy  grass  from  flourishing  underneath, 
nor  to  prevent  the  growth  of  numerous  groups  of 
large  white  lilies. 

All  the  lilies  in  the  garden  had  done  flowering,  but 
these,  more  pure  and  more  luxuriant,  through  shade 
and  shelter,  were  then  in  their  full  perfection,  and 
filled  the  air  with  their  delightful  fragrance. 

The  children  called  them  sister's  lilies,  because  when 
she  was  a  child  she  had  planted  them. 

We  generally  brought  pieces  of  bread  with  us,  to 
eat  with  our  fruit,  and  the  wilderness  being  our  favor- 
ite retreat,  we  played  there  at  all  times  in  the  day. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  SHOE. 

The  lilies  were  taller  than  the  younger  children,  who 
would  stand  on  tip-toe  to  push  their  little  fingers  into 
the  higher  flowers,  and  bring  them  down  covered  with 
yellow  pollen. 

Unchanged,  themselves,  in  their  white  purity,  they 
were  yet  susceptible  of  apparent  change  from  differ- 
ence in  the  light  cast  upon  them.  When  the  full  glare 
of  high  noon  was  upon  the  tops  of  the  elms,  then  was 
cast,  through  their  leaves,  upon  the  lilies,  a  faint  tinge 
of  most  delicate  green  ;  but  at  sunset,  we,  who  lived 
so  much  among  them,  sometimes  saw  a  pure  glow  of 
crimson  reflected  through  the  white  petals,  when  the 
setting  sun  sent  his  level  beams  between  the  trunks  of  the 
trees.  But  I  have  said  enough  of  these  fragrant  lilies, 
they  are  dead  now,  and  the  hand  that  planted  them. 

As  I  before  mentioned,  after  that  successful  Sunday, 
Lucy  and  I  walked  out  in  the  garden  early  in  the 
morning,  and  congratulated  one  another  on  our  good 
behavior,  which  we  intended  always  to  last,  and 
firmly  believed  it  always  would ;  but  we  were  grow- 
ing careless  and  confident,  and  though  the  thought  of 
the  red  curtain  never  failed  to  bring  salutary  feelings 
with  it,  there  were  times  when  we  did  not  think  of  it 
at  all,  and  in  one  of  those  times  temptation  came. 

It  was  fine  weather,  and  we  expected  some  cousins 
of  Lucy's  to  spend  the  day  with  us,  and,  as  we  walked, 
we  planned  how  we  would  pass  the  time.  Lucy  con- 
fided to  me  that  they  would  most  likely  be  very  noisy, 
and  perhaps  rude  ;  but  this,  like  two  little  self-righteous 
Pharisees,  as  we  were  on  that  particular  day,  we  de- 
cided to  prevent  if  possible  ;  certainly  not  to  partici- 
pate in,  as  Lucy  said  she  often  had  done  hitherto. 

28 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

I  believe  we  had  not  the  least  idea  that  our  strength 
might  fail  us,  and  we  made  our  arrangements  with  as 
much  composure  as  if  we  ourselves  were  quite  above 
the  ordinary  temptations  of  humanity. 

The  cousins  arrived  soon  after  breakfast,  and  the 
very  first  sight  of  them  dissipated  some  of  our  ideas ; 
they  were  older,  had  more  assurance  of  manner  than 
ourselves ;  but  children  understand  each  other  so  well 
that  I  perceived,  even  during  the  first  half-hour,  that 
they  were  amusing  themselves  at  my  expense,  and 
taking  notice  of  every  \vord  I  uttered,  as  was  evident 
by  the  glances  which  passed  between  them,  though  to 
outward  appearance  they  were  remarkably  grave.  I 
also  observed  that  Lucy,  though  so  accustomed  to  see 
them,  and  though  she  talked  of  them  so  freely  in  their 
absence,  was  very  much  awed  by  them,  and  very  silent 
now. 

When  they  escaped  from  the  presence  of  their  elders, 
their  manner  suddenly  changed  ;  they  had  evidently  not 
been  brought  up  like  ourselves,  and  their  gravity  and 
over-submissiveness  in  the  company  of  their  uncle,  and 
their  riotous  behavior  in  his  absence,  had  a  bad  effect 
upon  us  all. 

At  first,  Lucy  and  I  were  all  blushes  and  deference  ; 
but  they  soon  laughed  us  out  of  that,  and  by  means  of 
a  little  well-applied  ridicule  brought  us  into  such  com- 
plete thraldom,  that,  though  we  neither  liked  them, 
nor  enjoyed  playing  with  them,  we  wished  nothing  so 
much  as  to  stand  well  in  their  eyes,  and  to  be  and  to 
do  whatever  they  chose  to  dictate. 

It  is  astonishing  what  mischief  can  be  done  in  a 
day  !  Two  rough  boys,  and  one  prim  little  girl,  so 

29 


THE    GRANDMOTHERS    SHOE. 

upset  our  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  and  frightened  us 
out  of  propriety,  that  we  were  nearly  as  rude  as  them- 
selves through  false  shame  at  appearing  otherwise. 
We  heard  the  father  laughed  at  in  his  absence,  and 
ridiculed  for  his  peculiarity  about  the  fruit,  and  we 
had  nothing  to  say ;  we  saw  sister  seeking  for  us  in 
the  shrubbery,  and  eluded  her,  and  had  lost  courage 
against  their  orders  to  come  out  of  our  hiding-place 
and  show  ourselves.  Yet  these  cousins  kept  r.s  in 
high  spirits,  or  rather  in  a  state  of  considerable  excite- 
ment ;  we  spent  the  whole  day  with  them  in  games  of 
play,  and  went  to  bed  at  night  thoroughly  tired,  and 
not  at  all  inclined  to  talk  together  as  usual. 

At  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  we  got  up  and  went. 
out  into  the  garden  ;  the  excitement  of  the  past  day 
was  still  upon  us ;  we  were  not  at  all  like  the  children 
who  had  walked  there  previous  to  this  visit. 

It  was  a  very  sultry  morning,  the  air  was  still,  the 
dew  was  dried  already  from  the  grass.  It  wanted  an 
hour  yet  to  breakfast  time,  and  as  Lucy  and  I  saun- 
tered leisurely  through  the  wilderness,  we  discussed 
her  cousins,  blaming  them  very  freely  in  their  absence, 
though  we  had  wanted  courage  to  do  it  at  the  proper 
time. 

We  passed  into  the  walled  garden,  and  there  the 
heat,  for  the  tune  of  day,  was  quite  remarkable  ;  we 
got  under  the  shade  of  the  wall,  and  took  off  our  bon- 
nets to  use  by  way  of  fans.  Apples,  pears,  plums,  lay 
thickly  under  the  trees  ;  the  neighborhood  of  the  frames 
was  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  the  melons,  which 
seemed  as  if  it  might  have  been  collecting  there  all 
night,  for  there  was  not  the  least  waft  of  air  to  carry  it 

30 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE.' 

away.  We  came  to  the  little  apricot-tree,  and  stopped 
before  it  as  usual ;  the  six  apricots  were  now  quite 
ripe.  Lucy  was  quite  sure  her  father  would  gather 
them  that  day,  and  hoped  he  would  give  one  to  us. 

We  were  just  about  to  pass  on,  when,  O  sad  mis- 
chance !  a  ripe  one  fell  heavily  from  the  highest  branch 
at  our  feet,  and  broke  nearly  in  half  with  the  force  of 
the  fall.  It  was  not  one  of  the  six,  we  counted  them, 
and  all  were  in  their  places  ;  a  tuft  of  spleenwort  grew 
out  of  the  wall  just  where  it  fell  from  ;  behind  that 
and  some  leaves  this  apricot  must  have  ripened,  and 
been  entirely  concealed. 

Before  we  knew  what  we  were  about,  Lucy  had 
picked  it  up  and  divided  it.  '  Look,'  she  said,  '  father 
does  not  know  of  this,  and  the  wasps  would  spoil  it 
before  he  came  out ;  eat  thy  half,  and  I  will  eat  mine.' 
She  put  it  into  my  hand,  and  I  immediately  tasted  it 
and  ate  it. 

I  cannot  say  that  even  in  eating  that  apricot  was 
nice  to  the  taste  ;  it  was  imbittered  by  conscience ; 
and  hot  as  the  morning  was,  it  did  not  refresh  me. 

A  short  silence  followed  ;  we  remained  standing  be- 
fore the  apricot-tree  ;  then,  without  looking  each  other 
in  the  face,  we  moved  slowly  to  the  door  into  the 
wilderness. 

Broken  rules  and  regulations  began  to  rush  back 
into  my  recollection,  with  shame,  and  repentance,  and 
regret,  till  Lucy,  suddenly  bursting  into  tears,  and  ex- 
claiming, '  O,  I  am  so  sorry,  Sophia !  I  am  so  sorry  I 
gave  it  thee  ! '  I  turned  to  look  at  her,  and  saw  in 
her  hand  the  other  half  of  the  apricot.  Her  face  was 
crimsoned  through  agitation,  the  cause  of  it  was 


THE    GRANDMOTHER S    SHOE. 

evident,  when  she  added,  that  if  I  wished  it  she  would 
now  eat  the  other  half,  for,  as  she  had  tempted  me,  I 
should  not  be  alone  in  the  punishment. 

I  was  far  from  having  any  such  wish  ;  she  had  hesi- 
tated at  the  right  moment.  Unhappy  as  I  was,  it 
would  have  been  no  relief  to  know  she  had  as  much 
cause  for  sorrow  as  myself.  I  asked  her  to  give  me 
the  other  half  of  the  apricot,  and  we  found  a  little 
space  bare  of  grass  at  the  foot  of  a  lily,  where  we 
made  a  small  hole  and  buried  it,  and  covered  it 
down. 

When  we  had  done  this  Lucy  appeared  relieved ; 
but  as  for  me,  every  moment  increased  my  uneasiness  ; 
I  wondered,  I  was  astonished  to  think,  that  for  such  a 
very  paltry  gratification  I  should  have  put  my  neck 
under  such  a  yoke  ;  either  I  must  conceal  this  fault, 
and  be  always  in  fear  lest  it  should  be  discovered,  or 
I  must  confess  it  —  confess  to  greediness,  a  fault  chil- 
dren feel  peculiar  shame  in — and  not  to  my  own 
father,  but  to  a  gentleman  whose  hospitality  I  was 
enjoying,  who  gave  me  as  much  of  his  fruit  as  he 
thought  good  for  me  every  day,  and  who  allowed  me 
to  play  in  his  garden,  only  on  the  express  promise  on 
my  part  that  I  never  would  take  any  without  his  leave. 
All  this,  and  much  more,  passed  through  my  mind,  as 
we  walked  slowly  in  to  breakfast.  I  thought  not  only 
of  my  fault  with  reference  to  man,  but  having  such 
slight  experience  as  yet  in  the  frailty  of  my  nature,  I 
wondered  how  it  was  that  when  it  most  behooved  me 
to  remember  it,  I  should  have  forgotten  our  resolution 
when  we  found  ourselves  free  from  the  consequences 
we  deserved  at  the  drawing  back  of  the  red  curtain, 

32 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

and  wondered  more  than  all  that  I  should  have  for- 
gotten the  saying  that  hung  so  often  in  my  sight, 
'  Thou,  God,  seest  me.' 

We  entered  the  house  and  found  breakfast  ready  ; 
the  heat  was  wonderful,  and  the  stillness  in  the  air 
was  complete.  A  singular  glow  was  diffused  over 
everything,  though  the  sun  was  not  shining,  and 
through  the  open  window  came  multitudes  of  minute 
flies  like  morsels  of  black  thread. 

Sister  said  there  was  going  to  be  a  storm ;  we  all 
felt  oppressed.  Lucy  was  quiet,  but  a  restless  feeling 
of  apprehension  hung  over  me.  My  mind  was  busy 
with  the  young  apricot-tree,  and  in  every  face  I  fan- 
cied I  saw  a  reflection  of  my  thought. 

It  was  impossible  to  keep  the  flies  off  the  bread  ; 
the  tea  was  sprinkled  with  them,  as  well  as  the  table- 
cloth and  our  clothes.  The  grandmother  presently 
began  to  tell  how  such  a  swarm  had  preceded  a  great 
storm  which  took  place  in  her  youth,  when  a  house 
was  struck,  and  a  bed  driven  into  the  middle  of  -a 
room,  while  two  children  who  were  sleeping  in  it 
remained  uninjured. 

The  wearisome  meal  at  length  was  over,  the  poor 
little  children  were  quite  overpowered  ;  the  youngest 
came  up  to  his  sister,  and  leaning  his  head  against 
her,  said,  '  I  want  to  sit  on  thy  knee.'  As  she  took 
him  up,  James  and  Lucy  brought  their  stools  to  her 
side,  and  looked  in  her  face  apprehensively. 

'  What  art  thou  afraid  of? '  she  said  composedly  to 
Lucy ;  '  GOD  is  IN  THE  STORM,  lie  can  take  care  of 
thee.' 

The  father  and  grandmother  went  out  of  the  room 

2*  33 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

to  give  some  orders,  and  the  next  instant  several  vivid 
flashes  of  lightning  seemed  to  dash  across  our  faces. 
'  There,'  she  said,  when  the  thunder  which  followed 
them  ceased,  '  dost  thou  see  how  quiet  Sophia  is  ?  — 
She  is  not  afraid.' 

'  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  storm,'  I  replied  ;  and  I  asked 
her  if  I  might  go  up  to  my  own  room. 

She  gave  me  leave,  and  I  moved  up  stairs  to  the 
little  chamber.  I  remember  something  of  the  terrible 
dimness  which  seemed  to  have  gathered  in  an  instant ; 
and  of  the  glowing  heat  that  appeared  to  strike  against 
me  as  from  the  door  of  an  oven.  But  sister's  remark 
that  God  was  in  the  storm,  was  paramount  to  every- 
thing else,  and  before  the  thought  of  safety  came  the 
necessity  to  ask  forgiveness. 

Let  no  one  say  my  fault  was  a  trifling  one  ;  it  was 
the  same  which  had  cost  my  first  mother  her  place  in 
Paradise.  I  had  eaten  forbidden  fruit ;  and  as  I  knelt 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  hid  my  face,  I  remembered 
what  sister  had  said  on  this  subject,  and  how  I  had 
despised  her  advice  to  keep  away  from  temptation. 

Again,  there  rushed  over  my  heart  the  sudden  com- 
prehension of  the  nearness  of  God.  In  my  childish 
thought  I  felt  His  presence  so  close  to  me,  that  I  did 
not  need  to  pray  aloud ;  but  as  well  as  I  could  I  en- 
treated forgiveness,  though  the  deafening  peals*  of 
thunder  seemed  to  drown  my  words,  and  confuse  my 
very  thoughts  and  senses.  The  floor  shook  under  me, 
and  I  heard  the  furniture  rattle  and  reel ;  but  God,  I 
knew,  was  in  the  storm,  and  gradually,  as  I  prayed  to 
Him,  His  near  presence,  which  had  been  so  terrible 
34 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

to  me,  became,  to  my  apprehension,  a  source  of  rest, 
and  brought  a  consciousness  of  protection. 

There  was  nothing  else  to  trust  in  during  that  great 
danger  ;  but  it  was  enough.  I  was  quite  alone,  and 
though  sometimes  a  little  stunned  by  the  noise,  was 
able  to  distinguish  the  strange  sounds,  the  creaking 
and  crashing  of  boughs  of  trees,  the  lowing  of  the 
frightened  cattle,  the  distressed  cries  of  the  rooks. 
The  very  house  itself  seemed  endowed  with  power  to 
complain,  and  groaned  and  trembled  to  its  foundation. 

One  other  incident  I  remember  of  that  half-hour : 
something  soft  had  brushed  across  my  hands  ;  I  lifted 
up  my  face,  and  saw  two  trembling,  dripping  swal- 
lows sitting  on  my  pillow  ! 

And  now  the  sound  of  drenching  rain  was  added  to 
the  tumult  of  the  thunder.  I  remained  kneeling,  but 
was  no  longer  afraid.  Then  came  a  short  pause,  and 
I  thought  I  would  get  up  and  look  for  Lucy's  father. 
I  did  not  doubt  that  my  fault  was  forgiven,  but  my 
head  was  still  a  little  confused  with  the  noise,  and  I 
wished  to  tell  him  my  fault  without  considering 
whether  this  was  a  convenient  season. 

I  wandered  about,  but  could  find  no  one ;  I  opened 
several  doors  ;  at  length  I  came  to  the  upper  room  so 
often  mentioned,  advanced  to  the  red  curtain  and 
looked  in.  There  I  saw  him  and  the  grandmother 
sitting  side  by  side,  perfectly  composed,  but  with 
somewhat  awe-struck  faces  ;  the  son  was  holding  his 
mother  by  the  hand,  and  they  were  quite  silent.  I 
came  in  and  stood  beside  him  for  a  few  minutes  ;  the 
storm  was  clearing  off  with  magical  celerity,  and  two 
minutes  after  the  last  tremendous  clap  of  thunder,  the 

35 


THE    GRANDMOTHER  S    SHOE. 

rain  ceased,  and  the  sun  shone  out  over  the  sodden 
grass  and  the  ruined  garden,  all  strewed  with  broken 
branches,  fallen  fruit,  and  dead  nestlings  flung  from 
the  nests,  and  over  which  the  mother  rooks  were 
piteously  lamenting.  The  great  fear  of  God  so  lately 
suffered,  had  taken  away  for  a  time  all  fear  of  man ; 
and  though  the  grandmother  was  present,  I  did  not 
feel  afraid  when  I  asked  Lucy's  father  if  he  would 
hear  something  that  I  wanted  to  tell  him. 

Some  few  things  in  our  childhood  make  such  a 
deep  impression  on  the  mind  that  they  are  never  for- 
gotten. I  still  remember  how  I  told  my  story  to 
Lucy's  father,  and  almost  the  very  words  in  which  I 
told  him. 

I  remember  his  benign  face,  which,  to  my  great 
surprise,  never  once  became  in  the  least  displeased  all 
through  the  broken  narrative.  I  remember  the  grand- 
mother's manner,  which,  stranger  still,  never  re- 
proached me  as  it  did  at  other  times.  I  remember 
the  touch  of  her  aged  hand,  as  once  or  twice  she 
passed  it  softly  over  my  hair ;  and,  more  than  all,  I 
remember  the  quiet  kindness  of  Lucy's  father,  and 
how  gently  he  said,  when  I  had  finished,  and  he  had 
reflected  for  a  few  moments  on  my  tale,  '  Well,  well, 
let  him  that  is  without  sin  among  us  first  cast  a  stone 
at  thee.'  <* 

From  that  day  forward  the  grandmother  was  par- 
ticularly kind  to  me. 

36 


TWO   WATS  OF  TELLING  A  STORY. 

WHO    is    this?      A    careless   little    midshipman, 
idling  about  in  a  great  city,  with  his  pockets 
full  of  money. 

He  is  waiting  for  the  coach  :  it  comes  up  presently, 
and  he  gets  on  the  top  of  it,  and  begins  to  look  about 
him. 

They  soon  leave  the  chimney-pots  behind  them  ;  his 
eyes  wander  with  delight  over  the  harvest  fields,  he 
smells  the  honeysuckle  in  the  hedge-row,  and  he 
wishes  he  was  down  among  the  hazel  bushes,  that  he 
might  strip  them  of  the  milky  nuts ;  then  he  sees  a 
great  wain  piled  up  with  barley,  and  he  wishes  he  was 
seated  on  the  top  of  it ;  then  they  go  through  a  little 
wood,  and  he  likes  to  see  the  checkered  shadows  of 
the  trees  lying  across  the  white  road ;  and  then  a 
squirrel  runs  up  a  bough,  and  he  cannot  forbear  to 
whoop  and  halloo,  though  he  cannot  chase  it  to  its 
nest. 

'The  other  passengers  are  delighted  with  his  sim- 
plicity and  childlike  glee  ;  and  they  encourage  him  to 
talk  to  them  about  the  sea  and  ships,  especially  Her 

37 


TWO    WAYS    OF 

Majesty's  ship  The  Asp,  wherein  he  has  the  honor  to 
sail.  In  the  jargon  of  the  sea,  he  describes  her  many 
perfections,  and  enlarges  on  her  peculiar  advantages  ; 
he  then  confides  to  them  how  a  certain  middy,  having 
been  ordered  to  the  mast-head  as  a  punishment,  had 
seen,  while  sitting  on  the  top-mast  cross-trees,  some- 
thing uncommonly  like  the  sea-serpent  —  but,  finding 
this  hint  received  with  incredulous  smiles,  he  begins 
to  tell  them  how  he  hopes  that,  some  day,  he  shall  be 
promoted  to  have  charge  of  the  poop.  The  passen- 
gers hope  he  will  have  that  honor  ;  they  have  no  doubt 
he  deserves  it.  His  cheeks  flush  with  pleasure  to 
hear  them  say  so,  and  he  little  thinks  that  they  have 
no  notion  in  what  '  that  honor'  may  happen  to  consist. 

The  coach  stops :  the  little  midshipman,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  sits  rattling  his  money,  and  sing- 
ing. There  is  a  poor  woman  standing  by  the  door  of 
the  village  inn  ;  she  looks  careworn,  and  well  she  may, 
for,  in  the  spring,  her  husband  went  up  to  London  to 
seek  for  work.  He  got  work,  and  she  was  expecting 
soon  to  join  him  there,  when,  alas  !  a  fellow-workman 
wrote  her  word  how  he  had  met  with  an  accident, 
how  he  was  very  ill,  and  wanted  his  wife  to  come  and 
nurse  him.  But  she  has  two  young  children,  and  is 
destitute  ;  she  must  walk  up  all  the  way,  and  she  is 
sick  at  heart  when  she  thinks  that  perhaps  he  may  die 
among  strangers  before  she  can  reach  him. 

She  does  not  think  of  begging,  but  seeing  the  boy's 
eyes  attracted  to  her,  she  makes  him  a  courtesy,  and 
he  withdraws  his  hand  and  throws  her  down  a  sov- 
ereign. She  looks  at  it  with  incredulous  joy,  and 
then  she  looks  at  him. 

38 


TELLING    A    STORY. 

'  It's  all  right,'  he  says,  and  the  coach  starts  again, 
while,  full  of  gratitude,  she  hires  a  cart  to  take  her 
across  the  country  to  the  railway,  that  the  next  night 
she  may  sit  by  the  bedside  of  her  sick  husband. 

The  midshipman  knows  nothing  about  that ;  and  he 
never  will  know. 

The  passengers  go  on  talking  —  the  little  midship- 
man has  told  them  who  he  is,  and  where  he  is  going ; 
but  there  is  one  man  who  has  never  joined  in  the  con- 
versation ;  he  is  dark-looking  and  restless ;  he  sits 
apart ;  he  has  seen  the  glitter  of  the  falling  coin,  and 
now  he  watches  the  boy  more  narrowly  than  before. 

He  is  a  strong  man,  resolute  and  determined ;  the 
boy  with  the  pockets  full  of  money  will  be  no  match 
for  him.  He  has  told  the  other  passengers  that  his 

father's  house  is  the  parsonage  at  Y ,  the  coach 

goes  within  five  miles  of  it,  and  he  means  to  get  down 
at  the  nearest  point,  and  walk,  or  rather  run  over  to 
his  home,  through  the  great  wood. 

The  man  decides  to  get  down  too,  and  go  through 
the  wood  ;  he  will  rob  the  little  midshipman  ;  perhaps, 
if  he  cries  out  or  struggles,  he  will  do  worse.  The 
boy,  he  thinks,  will  have  no  chance  against  him  ;  it  is 
quite  impossible  that  he  can  escape  ;  the  way  is  lonely, 
and  the  sun  will  be  down. 

No.  There  seems  indeed  little  chance  of  escape  ; 
the  half-fledged  bird  just  fluttering  down  from  its  nest 
has  no  more  chance  against  the  keen-eyed  hawk,  than 
the  little  light-hearted  sailor  boy  will  have  against  him. 

And  now  they  reach  the  village  where  the  boy  is  to 
alight.  He  wishes  the  other  passengers  '  good  even- 
ing,' and  runs  lightly  down  between  the  scattered 

39 


TWO    WAYS    OP 

houses.  The  man  has  got  down  also,  and  is  fol- 
lowing. 

The  path  lies  through  the  village  churchyard  ;  there 
is  evening  service,  and  the  door  is  wide  open,  for  it  is 
warm.  The  little  midshipman  steals  up  the  porch, 
looks  in,  and  listens.  The  clergyman  has  just  risen 
from  his  knees  in  the  pulpit,  and  is  giving  out  his  text. 
Thirteen  months  have  passed  since  the  boy  was  within 
a  house  of  prayer ;  and  a  feeling  of  pleasure  and  awe 
induces  him  to  stand  still  and  listen. 

'  Are  not  two  sparrows  (he  hears)  sold  for  a  far- 
thing? and  one  of  them  shall  not  fall  on  the  ground 
without  your  Father.  But  the  very  hairs  of  your  head 
are  all  numbered.  Fear  ye  not,  therefore,  ye  are  of 
more  value  than  many  sparrows.' 

He  hears  the  opening  sentences  of  the  sermon  ;  and 
then  he  remembers  his  home,  and  comes  softly  out 
of  the  porch,  full  of  a  calm  and  serious  pleasure.  The 
clergyman  has  reminded  him  of  his  father,  and  his 
careless  heart  is  now  filled  with  the  echoes  of  his  voice 
and  of  his  prayers.  He  thinks  on  what  the  clergyman 
said,  of  the  care  of  our  heavenly  Father  for  us  ;  he  re- 
members how,  when  he  left  home,  his  father  prayed 
that  he  might  be  preserved  through  every  danger  ;  he 
does  not  remember  any  particular  danger  that  he  has 
been  exposed  to,  excepting  in  the  great  storm  ;  but  he  is 
grateful  that  he  has  come  home  in  safety,  and  he  hopes 
whenever  he  shall  be  in  danger,  which  he  supposes  he 
shall  be  some  day,  he  hopes,  that  then  the  providence 
of  God  will  watch  over  him  and  protect  him.  And 
so  he  presses  onward  to  the  entrance  of  the  wood. 

The  man  is  there  before  him.  He  has  pushed  him- 
40 


TELLING    A    STORY. 

self  into  the  thicket,  and  cut  a  heavy  stake  ;  he  suffers 
the  boy  to  go  on  before,  and  then  he  comes  out,  falls 
into  the  path,  and  follows  him. 

It  is  too  light  at  present  for  his  deed  of  darkness, 
and  too  near  the  entrance  of  the  wood,  but  he  knows 
that  shortly  the  path  will  branch  off  into  two,  and 
the  right  one  for  the  boy  to  take  will  be  dark  and 
lonely. 

But  what  prompts  the  little  midshipman,  when  not 
fifty  yards  from  the  branching  of  the  path,  to  break 
into  a  sudden  run  ?  It  is  not  fear,  he  never  dreams  of 
danger.  Some  sudden  impulse,  or  some  wild  wish  for 
home,  makes  him  dash  off  suddenly  after  his  saunter, 
with  a  whoop  and  a  bound.  On  he  goes,  as  if  run- 
ning a  race  ;  the  path  bends,  and  the  man  loses  sight 
of  him.  '  But  I  shall  have  him  yet,'  he  thinks  ;  '  he 
cannot  keep  this  pace  up  long.' 

The  boy  has  nearly  reached  the  place  where  the 
path  divides,  when  he  puts  up  a  young  white  owl  that 
can  scarcely  fly,  and  it  goes  whirring  along,  close  to 
the  ground,  before  him.  He  gains  upon  it ;  another 
moment,  and  it  will  be  his.  Now  he  gets  the  start 
again ;  they  come  to  the  branching  of  the  paths,  and 
the  bird  goes  down  the  wrong  one.  The  temptation 
to  follow  is  too  strong  to  be  resisted ;  he  knows  that 
somewhere,  deep  in  the  wood,  there  is  a  cross  track 
by  which  he  can  get  into  the  path  he  has  left ;  it  is 
only  to  run  a  little  faster  and  he  shall  be  at  home 
nearly  as  soon. 

On  he  rushes ;  the  path  takes  a  bend,  and  he  is  jus.t 
out  of  sight  when  his  pursuer  comes  where  the  paths 
divide.  The  boy  has  turned  to  the  right ;  the  man 


TWO    V.'AYS    OF 

takes  the  left,  and  the  faster  they  both  run  the  farther 
they  are  asunder. 

The  white  owl  still  leads  him  on  ;  the  path  gets 
darker  and  narrower ;  at  last  he  finds  that  he  has 
missed  it  altogether,  and  his  feet  are  on  the  soft 
ground.  He  flounders  about  among  the  trees  and 
stumps,  vexed  with  himself,  and  panting  after  his 
race.  At  last  he  hits  upon  another  track,  and  pushes 
on  as  fast  as  he  can.  The  ground  begins  sensibly  to 
descend  —  he  has  lost  his  way  —  but  he  keeps  bearing 
to  the  left ;  and,  though  it  is  now  dark,  he  thinks  that 
he  must  reach  the  main  path  sooner  or  later. 

He  does  not  know  this  part  of  the  wood,  but  he 
runs  on.  O,  little  midshipman  !  why  did  you  chase 
that  owl?  If  you  had  kept  in  the  path  with  the  dark 
man  behind  you,  there  was  a-  chance  that  you  might 
have  outrun  him ;  or,  if  he  had  overtaken  you,  some 
passing  wayfarer  might  have  heard  your  cries,  and 
come  to  save  you.  Now  you  are  running  on  straight 
to  your  death,  for  the  forest  water  is  deep  and  black 
at  the  bottom  of  this  hill.  O,  that  the  moon  might 
come  out  and  show  it  to  you  ! 

The  moon  is  under  a  thick  canopy  of  heavy  black 
clouds ;  and  there  is  not  a  star  to  glitter  on  the  water 
and  make  it  visible.  The  fern  is  soft  under  his  feet  as 
he  runs  and  slips  down  the  sloping  hill.  At  last  he 
strikes  his  foot  against  a  stone,  stumbles,  and  falls. 
Two  minutes  more  and  he  will  roll  into  the  black. 
water, 

'Heyday!'  cries  the  boy,  'what's  this?  O,  how 
it  tears  my  hands  |  O,  this  thorn-bush !  O,  my 
arms !  I  can't  get  free ! '  He  struggles  and  pants. 

42 


TELLING    A    STORY. 

'  All  this  comes  of  leaving  the  path,'  he  says ;  '  I 
shouldn't  have  cared  for  rolling  down  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  this  bush.  The  fern  was  soft  enough.  I'll  never 
stray  in  a  wrood  at  night  again.  There,  free  at  last ! 
And  my  jacket  nearly  torn  oft'  my  back  ! ' 

With  a  good  deal  of  patience,  and  a  great  many 
scratches,  he  gets  free  of  the  thorn  which  had  arrested 
his  progress,  when  his  feet  were  within  a  yard  of  the 
water,  manages  to  scramble  up  the  bank,  and  makes 
the  best  of  his  way  through  the  wood. 

And  now,  as  the  clouds  move  slowly  onward,  the 
moon  shows  her  face  on  the  black  surface  of  the  water  ; 
and  the  little  white  owl  comes  and  hoots,  and  flutters 
over  it  like  a  wandering  snowdrift.  But  the  boy  is 
deep  in  the  wood  again,  and  knows  nothing  of  the 
danger  from  which  he  has  escaped. 

All  this  time  the  dark  passenger  follows  the  main 
track,  and  believes  that  his  prey  is  before  him.  At 
last  he  hears  a  crashing  of  dead  boughs,  and  presently 
the  little  midshipman's  voice  not  fifty  yards  before 
him.  Yes,  it  is  too  true  ;  the  boy  is  in  the  cross  track. 
He  will  pass  the  cottage  in  the  wood  directly,  and  after 
that  his  pursuer  will  come  upon  him. 

The  boy  bounds  into  the  path  ;  but,  as  he  passes  the 
cottage,  he  is  so  thirsty,  and  so  hot,  that  he  thinks  he 
must  ask  the  inhabitants  if  they  can  sell  him  a  glass 
of  ale. 

He  enters  without  ceremony.  '  Ale  ? '  says  the 
woodman,  who  is  sitting  at  his  supper.  '  No,  we 
have  no  ale  ;  but  perhaps  my  wife  can  give  thee  a 
drink  of  milk.  Come  in.'  So  he  comes  in,  and  shuts 
the  door  ;  and,  while  he  sits  waiting  for  the  milk,  foot- 

43 


T\VO    WAYS    OF 

steps  pass.  They  are  the  footsteps  of  his  pursuer,  who 
goes  on  with  the  stake  in  his  hand,  and  is  angry  and 
impatient  that  he  has  not  yet  come  up  with  him. 

The  woman  goes  to  her  little  dairy  for  the  milk,  and 
the  l*oy  thinks  she  is  a  long  time.  He  drinks  it,  thanks 
her,  and  takes  his  leave. 

Fast  and  fast  the  man  runs  on,  and,  as  fast  as  he 
can,  the  boy  runs  after  him.  It  is  very  dark,  but  there 
is  a  yellow  streak  in  the  sky,  where  the  moon  is 
ploughing  up  a  furrowed  mass  of  gray  cloud,  and  one 
or  two  stars  are  blinking  through  the  branches  of  the 
trees. 

Fast  the  boy  follows,  and  fast  the  man  runs  on,  with 
his  weapon  in  his  hand.  Suddenly  he  hears  the  joy- 
ish  whoop  —  not  before,  but  behind  him.  He  stops 
and  listens  breathlessly.  Yes,  it  is  so.  He  pushes 
himself  into  the  thicket,  and  raises  his  stake  to  strike 
when  the  boy  shall  pass. 

On  he  comes,  running  lightly,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  A  sound  strikes  at  the  same  instant  on  the 
ears  of  both  ;  and  the  boy  turns  back  from  the  very 
jaws  of  death  to  listen.  It  is  the  sound  of  wheels,  and 
it  draws  rapidly  nearer.  A  man  comes  up,  driving  a 
little  gig. 

'Halloa?'  he  says,  in  a  loud,  cheerful  voice. 
'  What !  benighted,  youngster  ? ' 

'  O,  is  it  you,  Mr.  Davis?'  says  the  boy;  'no,  I 
am  not  benighted  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  I  know  my  way 
out  of  the  wood.' 

The  man  draws  farther  back  among  the  shrubs. 
'  Why,  bless  the  boy,'  he  hears  the  farmer  say,  '  to 
think  of  our  meeting  in  this  way.  The  parson  told 

44 


TEJLLIXG    A    STORY. 

me  he  was  in  hopes  of  seeing  thee  some  day  this  week. 
I'll  give  thee  a  lift.     This  is  a  lone  place  to  be  in  this 

O  J- 

time  o'  night.' 

'  Lone  ! '  says  the  boy,  laughing.  '  I  don't  mind 
that ;  and  if  you  know  the  way,  it's  as  safe  as  the 
quarter-deck.' 

So  he  gets  into  the  farmer's  gig,  and  is  once  more 
out  of  reach  of  the  pursuer.  But  the  man  knows  that 
the  farmer's  house  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile  nearer  than 
the  parsonage,  and  in  that  quarter  of  a  mile  there  is 
still  a  chance  of  committing  the  robbery.  He  deter- 
mines still  to  make  the  attempt,  and  cuts  across  the 
wood  with  such  rapid  strides  that  he  reaches  the  farm- 
er's gate  just  as  the  gig  drives  up  to  it. 

'  Well,  thank  you,  farmer,'  says  the  midshipman,  as 
he  prepares  to  get  down. 

'  I  wish  you  good  night,  gentlemen,'  says  the  man, 
when  he  passes. 

'  Good  night,  friend,'  the  farmer  replies.  '  I  say, 
my  boy,  it's  a  dark  night  enough  ;  but  I  have  a  mind 
to  drive  you  on  to  the  parsonage,  and  hear  the  rest  of 
this  long  tale  of  yours  about  the  sea-serpent.' 

The  little  wheels  go  on  again.  They  pass  the  man  ; 
and  he  stands  still  in  the  road  to  listen  till  the  sound 
dies  away.  Then  he  flings  his  stake  into  the  hedge, 
and  goes  back  again.  His  evil  purposes  have  all  been 
frustrated  —  the  thoughtless  boy  has  baffled  him  at 
every  turn. 

And  now  the  little  midshipman  is  at  home — .the 
joyful  meeting  has  taken  place  ;  and  when  they  have 
all  admired  his  growth,  and  decided  whom  he  is  like, 
and  measured  his  height  on  the  window-frame,  and 

45 


TWO    WAYS    OF 

seen  him  eat  his  supper,  they  begin  to  question  him 
about  his  adventures,  more  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
him  talk  than  any  curiosity. 

1  Adventures ! '  says  the  boy,  seated  between  his 
father  and  mother  on  a  sofa.  '  Why,  ma,  I  did  write 
you  an  account  of  the  voyage,  and  there's  nothing  else 
to  tell.  Nothing  happened  to-day  —  at  least  nothing 
particular.' 

'  You  came  by  the  coach  we  told  you  of? '  asks  his 
father. 

'  O  yes,  papa  ;  and  when  we  had  got  about  twenty 
miles,  there  came  up  a  beggar,  while  we  changed 
horses,  and  I  threw  down  (as  I  thought)  a  shilling, 
but,  as  it  fell,  I  saw  it  was  a. sovereign.  She  was  very 
honest,  and  showed  me  what  it  was,  but  I  didn't  ta'ke 
it  back,  for  you  know,  mamma,  it's  a  long  time  since 
I  gave  anything  to  anybody.' 

'  Very  true,  my  boy,'  his  mother  answers  ;  '  but  you 
should  not  be  careless  with  your  money  ;  and  few  beg- 
gars are  worthy  objects  of  charity.' 

'  I  suppose  you  got  down  at  the  cross-roads  ? '  says 
his  elder  brother. 

'  Yes,  and  went  through  the  wood.  I  should  have 
been  here  sooner  if  I  hadn't  lost  my  way  there.' 

'  Lost  your  way  ! '  says  his  mother,  alarmed.  '  My 
dear  boy,  you  should  not  have  left  the  path  at  dusk.' 

'  O,  ma,'  says  the  little  midshipman,  with  a  smile, 
'you're  always  thinking  we're  in  danger.  If  you  could 
see  me  sometimes  sitting  at  the  jib-boom  end,  or  across 
the  main-top-mast  cross-trees,  you  would  be  frightened. 
But  what  danger  can  there  be  in  a  wood?' 

'  Well,  my  boy,'  she  answers,  '  I  don't  wish  to  be 
46 


TELLING    A    STORY. 

over-anxious,  and  to  make  my  children  uncomfortable 
by  my  fears.  What  did  you  stray  from  the  path  for?' 

'  Only  to  chase  a  little  owl,  mamma  ;  but  I  didn't 
catch  her  after  all.  I  got  a  roll  down  a  bank,  and 
caught  my  jacket  against  <i  thorn-bush,  which  was 
rather  unlucky.  Ah  !  three  large  holes  I  see  in  my 
sleeve.  And  so  I  scrambled  up  again,  and  got  into 
the  path,  and  asked  at  the  cottage  for  some  beer. 
What  a  time  the  woman  kept  me,  to  be  sure !  I 
thought  it  would  never  come.  But  very  soon  after 
Mr.  Davis  drove  up  in  his  gig,  and  he  brought  me  on 
to  the  gate.' 

'  And  so  this  account  of  your  adventures  being 
brought  to  a  close,'  his  father  says,  '  we  discover  that 
thejre  were  no  adventures  to  tell ! ' 

'  No,  papa,  nothing  happened  ;  nothing  particular, 
I  mean.' 

Nothing  particular !  If  they  could  have  known, 
they  would  have  thought  lightly  in  comparison  of  the 
dangers  of  '  the  jib-boom  end,  and  the  main-top-mast 
cross-trees.'  But  they  did  not  know,  any  more  than 
we  do,  of  the  dangers  that  hourly  beset  us.  Some  few 
dangers  we  are  aware  of,  and  we  do  what  we  can  to 
pi-ovide  against  them  ;  but,  for  the  greater  portion, 
'  our  eyes  are  held  that  we  cannot  see.'  We  walk 
securely  under  His  guidance,  without  whom  '  not  a 
sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground  ! '  and  when  we  have 
had  escapes  that  the  angels  have  admired  at,  we  come 
home  and  say,  perhaps,  that  '  nothing  has  happened  ; 
at  least  nothing  particular.' 

It  is  not  well  that  our  minds  should  be  much  exer- 
cised about  these  hidden  dangers,  since  they  are  so 

47 


TWO    WAYS    OF    TELLING    A    STORY. 

many  and  so  great  that  no  human  art  or  foresight  can 
prevent  them.  But  it  is  very  well  that  we  should 
reflect  constantly  on  that  loving  Providence  which 
watches  every  footstep  of  a  track  always  balancing 
between  time  and  eternity  ;  and  that  such  reflections 
should  make  us  both  happy  and  afraid  —  afraid  of 
trusting  our  souls  and  bodies  too  much  to  any  earth  Iv 
guide,  or  earthlv  security  —  happy  from  the  knowledge 
that  there  is  One  with  whom  we  may  trust  them  whol- 
ly, and  with  whom  the  very  hairs  of  our  head  are  all 
numbered.  Without  such  trust,  how  can  we  rest  or 
be  at  peace?  but  with  it  we  may  say  with  the  Psalm- 
ist, '  I  will  both  lay  me  down  in  peace,  and  sleep,  for 
thou,  Lord,  only  makest  me  dwell  in  safety  ! ' 

48 


LITTLE   RIE  AND   THE   ROSEBUDS. 


LITTLE  RIE  AND   THE   ROSEBUDS. 

THE  last  house  before  you  come  to  the  open  heath 
is  a  gray,  cheerless  looking  place  in  winter,  though 
in  summer  it  looks  pleasant  and  gay,  for  it  is  nearly 
covered  with  china  roses. 

There  are  a  good  many  trees  in  the  front  garden, 
and  some  thick  laurestinus  shrubs.  On  one  side  of  the 
porch  is  the  kitchen  casement ;  on  the  other  side  the 
parlor  windows.  All  through  the  summer,  rose  leaves 
drift  in  whenever  these  are  open,  and,  even  as  late  as 
November,  rosebuds  tap  against  the  glass  whenever 
the  blustering  gale  comes  round  from  the  heath,  as  if 
appealing  to  the  inmates  to  take  them  in  and  shelter 
them  from  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

The  inmates  are  a  misti'ess  and  a  maid.  The  for- 
mer is  a  widow ;  but  her  late  husband  saved  money 
in  his  trade,  and  has  left  her  a  comfortable  annuity. 
The  latter  is  not  very  fair,  nor  very  wise,  but,  as  her 
mistress  says,  her  honesty  makes  up  for  want  of  wit, 
and  she  has  a  kind  heart,  though  it  be  a  foolish  one. 

One  dreary  November  afternoon,  when  the  sky  was 
piled  up  with  cold,  white  clouds,  and  the  gusty  wind 
shook  every  pool  in  the  gravel  walk  into  ripples,  the 

51 


LITTLE    RIE 

mistress  came  into  the  kitchen  and  sat  at  a  table 
stoning  raisins  for  a  cake,  while  the  maid  kneaded 
dough  for  the  said  cake  in  a  pan  on  the  window-seat. 

Suddenly  a  shadow  darkened  the  '  window,  and 
mistress  and  maid  raising  their  eyes,  saw  a  dark, 
determined-looking  woman  standing  outside  offering 
matches  for  sale ;  she  held  a  tiny  child  about  five 
years  of  age  by  the  hand.  The  little  creature  peered 
with  childish  interest  into  the  kitchen,  and  she  also 
pushed  forward  her  bundle  of  matches ;  but  they 
were  perfectly  wet,  and  so  was  the  dimpled  hand  that 
held  them,  for  rain  was  streaming  from  every  portion 
of  her  tattered  garments. 

'  No  ;  go  away ;  we  don't  want  any  matches,'  said 
the  mistress ;  but  the  woman  still  stood  before  the 
window  with  a  forbidding,  not  to  say  menacing,  aspect. 

'  The  woman's  boots  and  clothes  are  very  good,' 
said  Sally,  the  maid  ;  '  but  it's  pitiful  to  see  the  poor 
child's  bare  feet  and  rags ;  she  looks  hungry,  too.' 

'  Well,  Sally,  you  may  give  her  something  to  eat, 
then,'  said  the  mistress. 

Sally  rose  with  alacrity,  and  rubbing  the  flour  from 
her  arms,  ran  hastily  to  a  little  pantry,  from  which 
she  presently  returned  with  a  piece  of  cold  pudding. 
She  opened  the  casement,  and  held  it  out  to  the  child, 
who  took  it  with  evident  delight  and  began  to  eat  it  at 
once.  Then  the  dripping  pair  moved  away,  and  the 
mistress  and  maid  thought  no  more  of  them,  but  went 
on  with  their  occupation,  while  the  short  da}'  began 
to  close  in  the  sooner,  for  the  driving  clouds  and  pour- 
ing rain,  and  the  windows  in  the  little  stone  house 
began  to  glow  with  the  cheerful  light  of  the  fires. 
52 


AND    THE    ROSEBUDS. 

In  the  pauses  of  the  wind  and  rain,  Sally  once 
thought  she  heard  a  light  footfall,  but  she  did  not  see 
any  one  in  the  garden,  though  if  any  one  did  come  in 
then  and  wander  round  the  laurestinus  bushes,  and  sit 
down  in  the  little  porch,  that  person  must  have  seen 
all  that  went  on  that  rainy  night  in  the  cheerful  little 
parlor  and  kitchen  ;  must  have  seen  the  white-washed 
walls  of  the  kitchen  glowing  with  a  more  and  more 
ruddy  reflection  from  the  flames ;  must  have  seen  the 
little  door  open  in  the  face  of  the  cuckoo  clock,  and 
the  cuckoo  stall  briskly  out  and  sing,  and  dart  in 
again ;  and  must  have  seen  Sally  bustling  about,  cut- 
ting bread  and  butter,  setting  out  tea-things,  and 
putting  on  her  clean  apron  ;  then  the  person  by  simply 
turning,  could  have  seen  the  mistress,  in  her  afternoon 
gown  and  cap,  sitting  in  her  pretty  parlor,  the  walls 
all  covered  with  roses,  and  the  carpet  gay  with  bright 
flowers. 

It  grew  quite  dark.  Sally  sat  making  a  round  of 
toast  at  the  fire,  and  just  as  she  turned  the  toast  upon 
the  fork,  a  little  child  stole  as  silently  as  a  shadow 
from  the  porch,  and  pressed  her  cheek  against  the 
glass,  and  wondered  whether  there  was  any  more  of 
that  nice  cold  pudding  in  the  cupboard,  and  looked  at 
the  lazy  cat  as  she  came  and  rubbed  herself  against 
Sally's  gown.  But  presently  the  wind  came  round 
again,  and  dashed  the  rosebuds  so  hard  against  the 
casement,  that  she  was  frightened.  It  seemed  as  if 
they  rapped  on  purpose  to  let  people  know  she  was 
there  ;  and  she  crept  back  to  the  porch,  and  once 
more  cowered  down  in  its  most  sheltered  corner. 

She  was  very  wet;  but  she  did  not  mind  that  so 
53 


LITTLE    R1E 

much  as  might  have  been  expected  ;  she  did  not  mind 
being  out  in  the  dark  either,  for  she  was  well  accus- 
tomed to  it ;  but  she  was  very  tired,  they  had  walked 
so  far  that  day ;  and  every  minute  she  looked  out 
into  the  garden  and  listened,  and  wondered  why  her 
mammy  did  not  come,  for  she  was  alone.  After  they 
had  left  that  house  in  the  afternoon,  they  had  walked 
far  out  on  to  the  great  heath,  and  had  sat  down,  and 
then  her  mammy  had  said  to  her,  'Now,  child,  you 
may  go  back,  do  you  hear?'  and  she  had  risen  and 
said,  'Yes,  mammy,  where  am  I  to  go  back  to?' 
'  It  don't  much  signify,'  her  mammy  had  answered ; 
'  you  may  go  back  to  that  little  house  where  they  gave 
us  the  pudding,  and  I  shall  be  sure  to  come  soon  ;  I'm 
a-coming  directly.'  '  And  shall  you  be  sure  to  find 
me,  mammy?'  she  had  asked;  and  then  her  mammy 
was  angry  and  said,  '  Set  off  directly  when  I  bid  you  ; 
I  shall  find  you  fast  enough  when  I  want  you.' 

So  she  had  set  off  as  fast  as  she  could ;  but  it  was 
a  long  way,  and  a  long  while  before  she  reached  the 
porch,  and  then  she  was  so  tired  she  thought  she 
should  have  cried  if  there  had  not  been  a  little  bench 
to  sit  down  on. 

She  called  this  woman  her  mammy,  but  she  had  a 
real  mother  a  long  way  off,  of  whom  this  one  had 
hired  her,  because  when  they  went  out  begging,  her 
little  appealing  face  made  people  charitable.  What 
wonder,  since  the  real  mother  could  so  give  her  up, 
that  the  pretended  one  should  desert  her  if  she  no 
longer  needed  her ! 

But  she  did  not  know  her  desolate  condition.  She 
only  thought  what  a  long,  long  time  her  mammy  was 

54 


AND    THE    ROSEBUDS. 

in  coming,  and  she  crept  out  of  the  porch  again  to  see 
the  mistress  sitting  at  work,  and  stooping  now  and 
then  to  pat  a  dog  that  lay  basking  on  the  rug  at  her  feet. 
What  a  soft  rug  it  was  !  The  beggar  child  wished  she 
was  a  pet  dog,  that  she  might  lie  there  in  the  light  and 
warmth  ;  but  once  more  the  wind  swung  a  branch 
or  rosebud  against  the  glass,  and  she  withdrew  to  her 
comfortless  shelter,  longing  for  the  time  when  her 
mammy  was  to  fetch  her. 

And  then  two  more  dreary  hours  passed  over  her 
head  ;  sometimes  she  cried  a  little,  and  sometimes  she 
dozed,  and  woke  up  chilled  and  trembling ;  some- 
times she  took  courage,  and  wandered  about  among 
the  laurestinus  bushes,  so  fearful  was  she  lest  her 
mammy  should  miss  her ;  then  she  went  back  again 
and  cried,  and  was  so  tired  she  did  not  know  what 
she  should  do  if  she  had  to  wait  much  longer.  At 
last  her  little  head  sunk  quietly  down  upon  her  knees, 
and  the  wind,  and  the  rain,  and  the  darkness  were 
forgotten. 

She  was  sound  asleep  ;  but  after  a  long  time  she 
dreamed  that  some  one  shook  her  and  spoke  to  her,  but 
she  could  not  open  her  eyes,  and  then  that  little  dog 
began  to  bark  at  her,  and  she  was  so  frightened  that 
she  cried  bitterly  in  her  sleep.  Some  one  (not  her 
mammy)  was  lifting  her  up  and  carrying  her  away, 
and  giving  her  something  so  hot  and  so  nice  to  drink, 
that  she  was  amazed,  and  could  open  her  eyes  and  sit 
up  ;  there  was  the  cuckoo  clock,  and  the  little  dog  ;  he 
really  was  barking  at  her ;  but  the  warm  fire  was 
shining  on  her,  and  Sally  the  maid  was  pulling  off  her 

55 


LITTLE    RIE 

wet  clothes,  and  telling  her  not  to  be  frightened,  and 
she  should  have  some  supper. 

Poor  little  outcast !  They  dried  her  trembling  limbs 
and  wrapped  her  in  a  blanket ;  but  she  was  so  faint 
and  sleepy  that  she  could  hardly  hold  up  her  head, 
even  while  they  gave  her  some  supper,  but  presently 
fell  asleep  on  Sally's  knee  over  the  comfortable  fire. 

'  Well,  Sally,'  said  the  mistress,  '  I  can  only  say  that 
this  is  the  strangest  thing  I  ever  heard  talk  on.' 

'  And  so  it  is,  ma'am.  Please  what  am  I  to  do  now 
with  the  little  dear?'  said  Sally,  simpering. 

'  I  suppose  we  must  keep  her  for  the  night ;  make 
up  a  little  bed  on  three  chairs  ;  and  I  must  go  up  stairs 
'and  look  out  some  clothes  for  her  out  of  the  bundle  I 
made  up  to  give  away  at  Christmas.' 

So  the  mistress  went  up  stairs  ;  and  then  Sally  made 
the  little  bed,  and  prepared  a  warm  bath  to  refresh  the 
aching  limbs  of  the  poor  little  wanderer  ;  and  then  she 
combed  her  pretty  hair,  and  carried  her,  already  asleep, 
to  the  little  bed  on  three  chairs. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  mistress  came  down 
into  the  kitchen,  she  saw  her  baby-guest  sitting  on  a 
low  wooden  stool,  nursing  the  cat ;  her  dark  hair  was 
neatly  brushed,  and  her  face  was  as  clean  as  Sally's 
care  could  make  it ;  her  eyes  watched  with  inquisitive 
interest  the  various  preparations  for  a  comfortabl'e 
breakfast.  Her  features  expressed  a  kind  of  innocent 
shrewdness  ;  but  she  was  evidently  in  great  awe  both 
of  mistress  and  maid,  though,  when  unobserved,  she 
was  never  tired  of  admiring  her  new  checked  pinafore, 
and  smoothing  out  her  spotted  print  frock  with  her 
hands. 

56 


.       AND    THE    ROSEBUDS. 

'  Shall  I  give  her  some  bread  and  milk,  ma'am  ? ' 
asked  Sally. 

'  Certainly,'  said  the  mistress  ;  '  and  after  breakfast 
I  shall  consider  what  is  to  be  done  with  her.' 

So  the  little  thing  had  a  good  breakfast :  and  all  the 
morning  the  mistress  sat  considering ;  but  at  dinner- 
time it  appeared  that  she  had  not  considered  to  much 
purpose,  for  when  Sally  came  into  the  parlor  to  lay 
the  cloth,  and  asked,  '  Am  I  to  give  the  little  dear 
some  dinner,  ma'am  ? '  she  answered  again,  '  Certainly, 
Sally,  and  I  must  consider  what  is  to  be  done ;  I've 
not  been  able  to  make  up  my  mind.  How  has  she 
behaved  ? ' 

'  Been  as  good  as  gold,'  answered  Sally,  with  a 
somewhat  silly  smile ;  '  she  saw  me  dusting  about, 
and  I  gave  her  a  duster,  and  she  dusted  too,  and  then 
stood  on  the  stool  and  see  me  making  the  pie,  and 
never  touched  a  thing.  O,  she's  a  toward  little  thing.' 

After  dinner  it  began  to  rain,  and  then  the  wind  got 
up,  and  the  rosebuds  rattled  and  knocked  again  at  the 
casement.  A  little  before  tea-time  the  mistress  felt  so 
lonely  that  she  came  into  the  kitchen  for  company, 
and  there  she  saw  Sally  sitting  before  the  fire,  making 
toast,  and  the  child  on  a  chair  beside  her,  with  a  small 
piece  of  bread  on  a  fork. 

'  She's  toasting  herself  a  bit  of  bread  for  her  tea/ 
said  Sally,  '  leastways,  if  you  mean  to  give  her  her  tea, 
ma'am.' 

'  Certainly,'  said  the  mistress  once  more.  '  Dear 
me,  how  cheerful  it  looks  !  —  doesn't  it,  Sally?  a  child 
seems  always  to  make  a  place  cheerful.  Yes,  I  shall 
give  her  her  tea,  if  she  is  good.' 

57 


LITTLE    RIE 

If  to  be  quiet  is  to  be  good,  never  was  a  better  child  ; 
and  certainly  never  was  a  happier  one. 

'  Have  you  considered  anything  yet,  ma'am  ? '  asked 
Sally. 

1  Why,  no,  I  can't,  Sally,  just  yet ;  it's  so  wet,  she 
must  sleep  here  to-night,'  replied  the  mistress.  '  I'll 
think  of  it  to-morrow.' 

But  to-morrow  the  mistress  still  said,  '  I'll  think  of 
it  to-morrow ; '  and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  at  the  end 
of  a  month  the  child  was  still  there.  She  had  grown 
plump  and  rosy,  though  still  extremely  shy  and  quiet, 
which  was  in  her  favor  ;  for  mistress  and  maid  finding 
so  little  trouble,  and  such  a  constant  source  of  amuse- 
ment and  occupation,  had  gradually  dropped  all  con- 
sideration as  to  what  they  were  to  do  with  her, 
and  thought  of  nothing  less  than  letting  her  go  away 
at  all. 

She  called  herself  little  Rie,  and  said  she  come  from 
a  big  place  ;  but  that  was  all  that  questioning  could 
draw  from  her,  excepting  the  repeated  declaration  that 
she  did  not  want  to  go  back  to  her  mammy. 

How  happy  she  was  in  the  pretty  kitchen,  with 
Sally,  nursing  the  cat,  listening  to  the  tapping  rose- 
buds, sitting  on  the  little  stool  to  eat  her  simple  fare, 
going  to  the  shop  with  Sally,  and  creeping  softly  into 
the  parlor  to  peep  at  the  dog,  or  carry  a  message  or 
a  plate  of  biscuits  to  the  mistress !  She  was  very 
happy,  indeed,  at  first,  but  soon  there  began  to  mingle 
a  great  deal  of  fear  with  her  reverence  for  the  mistress. 
She  had  been  brought  up  with  no  habits  of  order, 
with  no  schooling,  and  now  she  was  to  be  taught  and 
trained  ;  and  every  day,  when  she  was  sent  into  the 

58 


AND    THE    ROSEBUDS. 

parlor,  with  a  nicely  washed  face  and  smooth  hair,  to 
say  her  lesson,  and  hem  a  duster,  she  became  more 
and  more  shy. 

'  The  poor  child's  been  used  to  such  a  roving  life,' 
said  Sally,  '  that  she  don't  take  as  kindly  as  might  be 
to  her  books.  She  doesn't  learn  as  easy  as  other 
children.' 

'  And  that's  the  very  reason  why  I'm  so  particular,' 
replied  the  mistress.  '  I  wonder,  Sally,  to  hear  you 
talk  as  if  you  wished  her  to  be  excused.' 

'  I  don't  know  as  I  do  wish  that,'  said  Sally  hum- 
bly, for  she  had  a  great  idea  of  her  mistress's  good 
sense  ;  '  but,  ma'am,  she's  such  a  little  one,  and  you 
see  we  often  wants  excusing  ourselves.' 

The  mistress  was  a  severe  person  ;  and  though  she 
heartily  loved  little  Rie,  and  did  not  mind  what 
trouble  she  took  with  her,  she  could  not  bear  that  the 
child  should  see  any  fondness  in  her  manner,  lest,  as 
she  said,  '  she  should  take  advantage.'  What  she  had 
told  her  once  she  expected  her  to  remember ;  and, 
above  all,  she  could  not  bear  deception ;  for  she  was 
very  upright  herself,  and  expected  others  to  be  so  too. 

But  poor  little  Rie  had  been  used  to  hard  usage, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  she  could  be  taught  that 
she  must  speak  the  truth  and  confess  her  faults,  what- 
ever might  be  the  consequences.  Deceit,  once  taught 
to  a  young  child  by  fear,  is  not  easily  eradicated,  and 
Sally  thought  nothing  but  kindness  could  do  it ;  but 
then  Sally  had  such  a  foolish  way  with  her,  and  was 
all  for  kindness  and  making  excuses  for  people,  not 
sufficiently  considering  what  was  just,  and  not  being 
willing  to  condemn  anybody  without  such  a  deal  of 

59 


LITTLE    RIE 

consideration,  that  the  mistress  felt  she  could  not  take 
her  opinion  at  all. 

'  Please,  ma'am,  she  will  speak  out  if  she's  not 
afraid,'  Sally  would  say  when  little  Rie  had  cried 
herself  to  sleep,  after  being  punished  for  some  childish 
deceit. 

'  Not  afraid  ! '  the  mistress  would  repeat.  '  How 
you  talk,  Sally  !  I  punish  her  to  make  her  afraid  of 
doing  anything  else  but  speak  out.' 

'  But,  ma'am,  consider  her  bringing  up,'  said  Sally, 
'  and  don't  look  for  too  much  at  first.' 

'  Too  much  ! '  repeated  the  mistress  ;  '  don't  I  give 
her  everything,  and  haven't  I  a  right  to  look  for  obedi- 
ence and  truth  in  return  ?  ' 

'  Surely,'  said  Sally,  '  and  I  hope  you'll  have  them, 
ma'am.' 

'  I  hope  so,'  replied  the  mistress  ;  but  the  very  next 
day  little  Rie  got  into  trouble  again,  for  she  was  told 
to  hold  out  her  pinafore  while  the  mistress  counted 
apples  into  it  for  a  pudding ;  the  pinafore  was  not 
half  full  when  the  mistress  was  called  away,  and  then 
little  Rie,  left  alone,  looking  at  all  the  bright,  rosy  ap- 
ples, lying  in  rows  on  the  low  shelf,  found  the  tempta- 
tion too  great  for  her,  and  bit  one  of  them,  which  she 
hastily  returned  to  its  place.  When  the  mistress 
came  back  and  found  the  little  culprit,  with  cheeks 
suffused  with  crimson,  and  head  hanging  down,  she 
easily  discovered  what  had  happened ;  and  then,  in 
spite  of  her  promises  that  she  would  be  good,  she  was 
summarily  punished,  and  put  to  bed. 

'  She  is  but  a  child,'  said  Sally. 
60 


AND    THE    ROSEBUDS. 

'  She's  a  naughty  child,'  said  the  mistress,  '  and  it  is 
just  she  should  be  punished.' 

'  Yes,  ma'am,'  Sally  ventured  to  say,  '  only  some- 
how if  you're  angry  when  you  do  it,  won't  she  think 
you  don't  love  her  ?  ' 

'  Dear  me,  Sally,  how  foolish  you  are !  I  don't 
want  her  to  think  I  love  her  when  she's  naughty,  but 
only  when  she's  good.' 

'  O,  don't  you,  ma'am?'  replied  Sally,  doubtfully. 
'  Well,  ma'am,  no  doubt  but  you  know  best.' 

'  I  must  be  just,'  continued  the  mistress  ; ' '  she  shall 
be  indulged  when  she's  good,  but  I  shall  never  over- 
look it  when  she's  naughty.' 

The  mistress  was  as  good  as  her  word ;  and  as 
little  Rie  was  often  naughty  in  her  childish  way,  it 
followed  that  she  was  often  punished ;  till  once  see- 
ing her  dear  Sally  crying,  after  the  mistress  had  been 
more  than  usually  angry,  she  climbed  up  her  knee, 
and  made  many  protestations  that  she  would  never  be 
naughty  any  more  and  make  Sally  cry. 

Poor  little  Rie,  she  had  her  troubles ;  but  she  loved 
Sally  dearly ;  and  perhaps,  child  as  she  was,  she  had 
sometimes,  when  the  rain  was  pouring  down,  and  the 
wind  howling  outside,  a  dim  perception  that  she  had 
been  saved  from  a  dreary,  toilsome,  and  evil  life,  and 
it  was  strangely  better  to  sit  with  Sally  in  the  cheer- 
ful kitchen,  and  hear  the  rosebuds  tapping,  than  to 
•wander  down  and  down  those  ever  lengthening  roads, 
cold,  and  hungry,  and  neglected. 

But  discipline,  though  it  may  be  harsh,  does  not  fail 
to  produce  a  certain  good  result.  Little  Rie  under- 
stood very  soon  that  she  was  never  to  be  punished 

61 


LITTLE    RIE 

unless  she  was  naughty  ;  that  was,  at  least,  something 
learned,  as  it  had  been  by  no  means  the  experience  of 
her  infantine  life.  It  was  a  great  thing  to  know  that 
she  was  never  to  be  punished  excepting  when  she  had 
done  wrong,  and  this,  once  learned,  she  did  wrong 
much  seldomer,  and,  as  they  hoped,  had  also  learned 
to  speak  the  truth. 

And  now  she  had  been  very  good  for  a  long  time  ; 
and,  by  consequence,  she  was  very  happy,  and  the 
time  passed  rapidly,  till  all  the  snow  had  melted  away 
and  the  garden  was  full  of  crocuses  and  snow-drops ; 
it  seemed  only  a  few  days  and  they  were  over ;  and 
she  could  watch  the  rosebuds  coming  out ;  and  then 
it  seemed  a  very  little  time  longer  before  Sally  was 
constantly  telling  her  to  pick  the  roseleaves  up  and 
throw  them  out,  when  they  drifted  in  at  the  window. 

At  last,  one  day,  one  sorrowful  clay,  the  mistress 
came  into  the  kitchen  to  make  a  raisin  pudding,  while 
she  sent  Sally  and  little  Rie  to  the  shop,  and  during 
their  absence  she  twisted  up  some  few  raisins  in  a 
paper  and  laid  them  on  the  dresser,  intending  to  give 
them  to  the  child  when  she  came  in.  But  Sally  came 
in  very  late  ;  and  when  she  laid  a  rabbit,  and  a  plate 
of  butter,  and  papers  of  sugar,  rice,  and  tea  on  the 
table,  and  then  proceeded  to  count  out  eggs  and  pro- 
duce apples  and  other  good  things,  the  mistress  forgot 
the  raisins,  .and  pushed  back  her  flour,  and  all  her 
apparatus,  to  make  room  for  the  groceries.  Sally  was 
not  a  good  accountant,  and  she  had  scarcely  made  out 
the  price  of  each  article  and  produced  the  change, 
when  some  friends  came  to  see  the  mistress,  and  she 
washed  her  hands  and  went  into  the  parlor. 

62 


AND    THE    ROSEBUDS. 

When  they  were  gone,  she  remembered  her  in- 
tended present  and  came  back  into  the  kitchen ;  she 
moved  every  parcel  and  every  dish,  searched  the 
dresser,  and  looked  on  the  floor,  but  the  paper  of 
raisins  was  not  to  be  found  —  it  was  gone. 

'  Come  here,  little  Rie,'  she  said  gravely  ;  '  did  you 
see  a  paper  of  raisins  on  the  table  when  you  came 
home  ? ' 

'  Yes,  ma'am,'  said  the  child,  whose  two  small 
hands  were  tightly  clasped  behind  her. 

'  And  do  you  know  what  has  become  of  them  ? ' 

'  No,  I  don't,  I  sure  I  don't,'  replied  the  child,  and 
her  delicate  neck  and  face  became  suffused  with 
crimson. 

'  O,  my  dear  ! '  exclaimed  Sally,  '  if  she'll  speak  the 
truth,  I  know  missis  won't  be  so  angry  with  her.  O, 
she  will  speak  the  truth,  I  know.' 

'  I  did,  I  did,'  cried  the  child,  with  an  outbreak  of 
passionate  tears. 

Sally  upon  this  searched  the  floor  and  tables,  and 
nothing  could  be  more  clear  than  that  the  raisins  were 
not  there.  Alas !  they  could  not  doubt  that  she  had 
eaten  them,  for  she  had  been  left  alone  in  the  kitchen 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  Sally  herself  admitted  that  they 
could  not  have  gone  without  hands. 

'  Now,  if  you  will  speak  the  truth,'  said  the  mistress, 
gravely,  '  and  confess  that  you  took  those  raisins '  — 

'  I  didn't,'  repeated  the  child,  now  too  much  in  a 
passion  to  care  what  she  said  ;  '  I  don't  want  the  nasty 
raisins,  and  I  won't  have  them.' 

'  O,  this  will  never  do,'  said  the  mistress  ;  '  Sally,  I 
really  must  correct  her  ! ' 

63 


IJTTLE    RIE 

'  Will  she  tell  it  all  ? '  said  Sally,  once  more  stooping 
over  the  child,  for  she  had  flung  herself  on  the  floor, 
and  was  sobbing  and  screaming.  But  no,  little  Rie 
would  only  struggle  and  fight  her  away,  till  at  another 
bidding  she  went  with  a  sorrowful  heart  to  fetch  the 
rod,  and  when  she  came  back  she  found  the  child  in 
such  a  passion,  that  she  ventured  no  remonstrance, 
though  she  still  hurriedly  looked  about  with  the  vague 
hope  that  she  might  have  spoken  the  truth  after  all. 

Poor  little  Rie  !  she  was  very  naughty.  Sally  was 
the  more  grieved,  because  lately  she  had  always  spoken 
the  truth  ;  but  now,  when  an  hour  after  her  punish- 
ment, the  mistress  came  in  again,  and  offered  to  for- 
give hci\on  condition  of  her  speaking  the  truth,  she 
sullenly  walked  into  the  corner,  and  sobbed,  and  would 
not  say  a  word. 

'  Then,  Sally,  you  must  go  these  errands  by  your- 
self,' said  the  mistress ;  '  I  meant  to  have  let  her  go 
\vith  you,  but  now  she  must  stay  here  by.  herself.' 
Little  Rie  looked  up  as  she  went  away,  and  saw  that 
she  was  very  stern  and  angry.  O,  how  little  either  of 
them  thought  that  they  should  never  look  one  another 
in  the  face  again  ! 

Sally  went  away.  It  was  a  lovely  afternoon,  and 
the  kitchen  door  leading  into  the  back  garden  was 
open.  Little  Rie  at  first  was  very  disconsolate,  but 
soon  the  light  spirits  of  childhood  began  to  assert  them- 
selves, and  she  began  to  play,  though  very  quietly, 
and  with  an  occasional  sob,  till  at  last,  O,  woful  mis- 
chance, she  knocked  down  a  cheese  plate !  It  fell 
clattering  upon  the  floor,  and  broke  into  fifty  pieces ; 

64 


AND    THE    ROSEBUDS. 

one  moment  she  stood  aghast !  then  her  terrified  fancy 
feigned  a  step  upon  the  stairs ;  she  darted  through  the 
open  door  and  rushed  down  the  garden.  Where  she 
should  go  to  escape  the  anger  of  the  mistress,  she 
scarcely  knew ;  but  she  came  to  the  garden  wicket,  it 
led  into  a  lane  ;  she  opened  it,  shut  it  behind  her,  and 
with  it  shut  the  door  upon  home  and  hope  ;  shut  the 
door  upon  all  that  had  kept  her  from  beggary  and 
wretchedness,  from  a  vagrant  life,  from  contact  with 
everything  that  is  evil  and  vicious,  and  from  igno- 
rance of  everything  that  is  good. 

She  ran  away,  and  no  one  knew  what  became  of 
her.  There  was  a  man  who  said,  some  time  after- 
wards, that  he  had  met  her  that  night  about  sundown, 
wandering  over  the  moor,  but  that  he  had  asked  her 
no  questions,  for  he  thought  some  of  her  friends  must 
be  near  at  hand.  In  the  course  of  time  many  rumors 
got  about  respecting  her,  but  nothing  was  ever  known. 
Little  Rie  '  was  not ; '  she  had  vanished  from  her  place 
like  a  dream. 

O,  weary  nights,  when  Sally  was  alone  by  the  fire, 
and  thought  of  her  pretty  companion,  and  cried,  and 
then  started  up  and  opened  the  door,  to  find  for  the 
fiftieth  time  that  it  was  only  the  tapping  rosebud  that 
she  had  heard  against  the  casement !  O,  weary  nights, 
when  the  mistress  lamented  over  her,  and  forgave  all 
her  childish  faults,  and  wondered  to  find  how  much 
she  had  loved  her  ;  and  could  not  rest  in  the  wind  for 
thinking  of  her  shelterless  head,  and  could  not  rest  in 
the  rain  when  thinking  of  the  night  when  first  she  took 
her  in,  and  could  not  rest  in  her  bed  for  dreaming  of  a 

65 


I.ITTLE    RIE 

desolate  child  wandering  up  and  down,  with  no  one 
to  take  her  by  the  hand,  or  lead  her  towards  heaven  ! 

And  yet  the  mistress  did  not  reproach  herself.  She 
had  done  well  to  take  the  child  ;  few  would  have  done 
as  much  ;  and  she  had  done  well  to  punish  her ;  it 
was  just  and  right  that  she  should  suffer  for  her  faults. 

But  weeks  after,  when  poor  Sally's  simple  heart  was 
getting  used  to  miss  the  child,  the  mistress  came  into 
the  kitchen  and  took  down  a  little  covered  jar  full  of 
caraway  seeds,  from  a  shelf  over  the  dresser ;  she 
looked  in,  and  a  mist  seemed  to  rise  and  shut  out  the 
sunshine  without  and  within,  for  there  lay  the  paper 
of  rajsins ;  in  an  instant  she  knew  it  again,  and  knew 
that  in  her  hurry  and  confusion,  she  herself  must  have 
thrown  it  in.  Yes,  that  little  jar  had  been  standing 
beside  her.  Then  into  it  she  must  have  pushed  or 
dropped  the  raisins,  and  afterwards,  with  her  own 
hand,  she  must  have  set  the  jar  upon  the  shelf  above, 
to  be  out  of  her  way. 

Miserable,  aching  pain  !  How  hard  it  was  to  have 
it  so  often  in  her  heart,  and  by  slow  degrees  to  grow 
into  the  knowledge,  that  even  a  just  punishment  may 
become  unjust,  unless  it  is  administered  in  the  spirit 
of  love !  But  hers  had  not  been  a  just  punishment. 
Alas !  she  had  not  possessed  herself  of  any  certain 
knowledge  of  the  fault ;  she,  herself,  had  outraged 
that  sense  of  truth  and  justice  which  she  had  been  at 
so  much  pains  to  implant;  and  now  there  was  no 
means  of  making  restitution. 

But  let  us  not  judge  her ;  for  in  this  world  of  un- 
certain knowledge  and  concealed  motives,  how  few  of 
66 


AND    THE    ROSEBUDS. 

us  there  are  not  equally  at  fault !  It  is  not  the  effect 
of  one  particular  act  of  injustice  that  should  impress 
us  with  so  much  regret,  as  the  habit  of  too  great  sud- 
denness or  harshness  in  judging.  How  difficult  it  is 
for  us  to  estimate  the  many  ways  in  which  we  may  be 
mistaken  !  When  shall  we  learn  to  keep  the  knowl- 
edge always  present  with  us,  that  often  kindness  is  our 
best  uprightness,  and  our  truest  justice  is  mercy? 
67 


DEBORAH'S  BOOK. 

TT  7HEN  I  was  a  little  child,  I  thought  what  a 
»  »  good  thing  it  would  be  if  I  could  set  out  on 
a  pilgrimage.  I  had  been  reading  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  and  had  specially  pondered  over  the  account 
of  the  wicket  gate.  The  wonderful  book  which  con- 
tains the  description,  and  the  picture  of  it,  I  had  read 
up  in  a  garret  in  the  house  of  an  old  lady,  to  whom  I 
was  paying  a  visit;  an  old  lady  who  never  came 
down  after  breakfast  till  twelve  o'clock,  who  dined  at 
one,  drank  tea  at  five,  and  after  that  dozed  and 
dreamed  in  her  easy  chair.  She  lived  by  the  sea-side, 
and  was  of  kin  to  my  mother.  I  had  been  sent  alone 
to  her.  She  did  not  like  children,  as  she  told  my 
parents,  therefore  she  could  not  ask  any  of  my  numer- 
ous brothers  or  sisters  to  visit  her  at  the  same  time ; 
but  I  was  a  quiet  little  thing,  '  shod  with  velvet,'  and 
contented  to  sit  still  and  dream  over  my  book ;  be- 
sides, when  I  worked  I  could  thread  my  own  needle, 
and  the  last  child  that  she  had  invited  to  stay  with  her 
was  always  teasing  her  to  ring  the  bell  for  Deborah 
to  come  in  and  thread  her  needle.  This  had  made 
a  deep  impression  on  the  old  lady,  and  she  would 

69 


DEBORAH'S  BOOK. 

often  say,  '  If  I  have  rung  the  bell  once  for  Deborah 
to  come  in  and  thread  that  child's  needle,  I  have  rung 
it  fifty  times,  my  dear.'  '  Indeed  ! '  my  mother  would 
reply  ;  and  add,  with  pretty  maternal  pride,  '  my  little 
girls  are  all  particularly  clever  with  their  needle.' 

'  So  they  are,  my  dear,'  our  aged  relation  would 
answer ;  and  she  once  added,  '  As  for  this  little  thing, 
she  mended  my  gloves  the  other  day  like  a  woman, 
and  then  came  up  to  me  so  prettily,  "  Are  these 
stitches  small  enough,  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Wells? 
there's  rather  a  long  one  here,  but  I  can  pull  it  out  if 
you  like."  "  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "  that  will  do."  I 
couldn't  see  one  of  'em  without  my  spectacles !  You 
may  send  her  to  me,  and  welcome,  Fanny,  if  you  like. 
I  dare  say  the  sea  air  will  do  her  good  —  a  poor  little 
aguish  thing.'  So  I  was  sent,  or  rather  brought  over 
by  my  father,  together  with  my  knitting  and  my  net- 
ting, my  little  work-box,  my  story-books,  and  my 
Peep  of  Day.  I  felt  what  a  fine  thing  it  was  to  go 
out  on  a  visit,  and  what  a  matter  of  rejoicing  it  was 
that  my  cheeks  were  not  round  and  rosy,  like  the 
cheeks  of  my  brothers  and  sisters  ;  besides,  mamma 
had  put  a  new  blue  veil  on  my  bonnet,  to  shade  me 
from  the  sun,  and  had  given  me  a  parasol  —  a  thing 
that  I  had  never  possessed  before,  for  I  was  only  six 
years  old.  Therefore,  as  I  said,  a  natural  elation 
resulting  from  conscious  ill-health,  and  some  new 
property,  took  entire  possession  of  my  little  heart ; 
and  as  I  sat  in  the  gig  by  papa's  side,  I  drew  myself 
up  as  much  as  I  could,  and  hoped  the  passers-by, 
seeing  me  with  my  veil  and  my  parasol,  would  think 
I  was  a  grown-up  lady. 

70 


DEBORAH'S  BOOK. 

Mamma  had  given  me  five  things  to  remember,  and 
had  counted  them  over  to  me  on  the  fingers  of  my 
hand,  after  she  had  put  my  new  gloves  on. 

I  was  never  to  forget  to  say  my  prayers ;  I  was  to 
write  to  her  twice  a  week ;  I  was  always  to  change 
my  shoes  when  I  came  in  from  a  walk  ;  I  was  to  keep 
my  room  very  tidy ;  and  (greatest  charge  of  all,  as  I 
thought  at  the  time)  I  was  honestly  to  tell  the  house- 
maid, when  I  was  sent  up  to  bed,  that  mamma  did 
not  wish  me  to  put  out  my  own  candle.  I  was  very 
anxious  to  persuade  mamma  that  I  could  put  it  out 
myself,  therefore  she  was  the  more  urgent  in  impress- 
ing upon  me  that  she  would  not  allow  it;  and,  in 
taking  leave  of  her,  and  during  the  drive  to  the  sea,  I 
thought  very  much  (when  I  was  not  thinking  of  my 
veil  and  my  parasol)  about  that  candle. 

We  reached  the  house.  Mrs.  Wells  did  not  come 
out  to  meet  us,  but  received  us  rather  cordially,  though 
she  reminded  my  father  that  he  had  promised  to  be  in 
time  for  dinner,  and  that  he  was  full  ten  minutes  late  ; 
he  made  some  trifling  excuse,  we  sat  down  to  this 
early  meal,  and  very  shortly  after  my  father  took  his 
leave.  Then,  as  I  well  remember,  my  relative  rang 
the  bell,  and  sent  for  Deborah.  Deborah,  a  rough, 
red-cheeked  young  woman,  came  in,  and  her  mistress 
addressed  her  with,  '  Now,  Deborah,  I  hope  you 
haven't  forgotten  my  orders  about  the  garret.' 

'  No,  ma'am,'  said  Deborah,  '  and  I've  scrubbed  it 
and  dusted  it,  and  laid  out  the  half-crown  you  gave 
me  for  toys ;  and  if  miss  makes  all  the  noise  she  can 
there,  you'll  never  hear  her.' 

'  That's  right,  Deborah,'  replied  my  relative  languid- 

7' 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

ly.  '  Go  up  with  Miss  Rosamond,  and  show  her  the 
room  ;  there,  go  away,  my  dear,  till  tea-time.' 

So  I  went  up  stairs  demurely,  not  the  less  so 
because  Deborah  kept  looking  at  me  ;  and  when  we 
got  into  the  garret  I  found  it  perfectly  empty,  literally 
empty  of  furniture,  excepting  that  there  was  one  otto- 
man footstool  on  the  floor  which  was  heaped  with 
paper  parcels. 

'  Well,  now,'  said  Deborah,  addressing  herself, 
'  didn't  I  say,  over  and  over  again,  that  I  would  con- 
trive a  table  for  this  child  —  what  a  head  I  have!' 
and  so  saying,  she  flounced  out  of  the  room,  bringing 
back,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  smooth  lid  of  a  very  large 
deal  box,  and  two  light  bedroom  chairs.  Setting 
them  some  distance  apart,  she  laid  the  flat  lid  on  their 
seats,  and  it  made  a  capital  table,  just  the  right  height 
for  me  to  sit  before  on  the  ottoman.  She  quickly 
picked  up  the  parcels,  and  laying  them  on  my  table, 
exclaimed,  '  There,  missy,  now  see  if  that  is  not  a 
good  half-crown's  worth.  Mistress  said  you  were  to 
play  up  here,  and  when  I  told  her  there  was  nothing 
to  play  with,  she  said  I  might  go  to  the  shop  down 
to-wn,  and  lay  out  half-a-crown.  See  here  ! ' 

I  opened  the  parcels,  and  found  in  one,  to  my  great 
joy,  a  dozen  Dutch  dolls,  with  lanky  legs,  and  high 
plaited  hair,  fastened  with  the  conventional  golden 
comb  that  Dutch  dolls  always  wear ;  in  another  I 
found  a  toy-box  of  pewter  tea-things,  and  a  similar  box 
of  lambs  upon  a  movable  stretcher ;  and  in  two  more 
was  a  quantity  of  doll's  furniture.  I  was  exceedingly 
content,  the  more  so  when  Deborah,  going  out  again, 
presently  appeared  with  a  bandbox  full  of  odds  and 

72 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

ends,  with  which,  she  said,  I  might  dress  my  dolls ; 
and  two  books,  with  pictures  in  them.  These  last, 
she  said,  I  might  look  at  as  often  as  I  liked,  but  I 
must  not  tear  them  ;  they  were  hers.  So  saying,  she 
left  me,  and  if  ever  I  was  happy  in  my  life  I  was 
happy  then.  All  by  myself,  plenty  of  new  toys,  a 
table  on  purpose  for  me,  and  a  little  window,  which, 
when  I  stood  upon  my  ottoman  and  looked  out, 
showed  me  the  long  waste  of  salmon-colored  sand, 
and  the  bathing-machines  left  high  and  dry,  and  the 
green  sea  tumbling  at  a  distance  ;  and  the  happy  little 
shrimpers  with  their  nets,  whose  absolute  duty  it  was 
to  do  what  all  children  long  to  do  as  a  pleasure  —  take 
off  their  shoes  and  stockings  and  splash  about  in  the 
warm  salt  water.  What  delight  to  have  all  these 
things,  and  quiet  to  observe  them  in,  and  leisure  to 
enjoy  them !  The  nursery  at  home  had  plenty  of 
toys  in  it,  but  there  were  two  babies  there,  who  must 
not  be  awakened  by  any  games  of  play  while  they 
slept,  and  when  they  were  awake  it  always  resounded 
with  such  laughing  and  jumping,  such  pushing  and 
running,  such  crying,  quarrelling,  and  making  it  up 
again  (unhappily  for  this  divided  world  a  more  easy 
thing  in  chidhood  than  afterwards),  that  there  was  no 
time  for  enjoying  play,  and  no  quiet  for  reading  even 
the  prettiest  story.  '  Master  John,  be  quiet ;  your  shout- 
ing goes  through  my  head  ;  O,  deary  me,  Miss  Mary, 
do  sit  down  and  keep  quiet ;  Miss  Alice,  if  you  can't 
leave  off  that  crying,  I  really  must  call  your  mamma,' 
were  the  constant  complaints  heard  in  our  nursery ; 
but  childhood,  on  the  whole,  is  a  happy  time,  though 
*  73 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

a  cross  nurse  does  now  and  then  overshadow  it  with 
gloom. 

Well,  there  I  was.  In  due  time  I  was  called  down 
to  tea,  and  asked  whether  I  liked  my  playroom.  I 
said  I  did,  and  that  I  was  very  happy.  My  relation 
answered,  as  if  to  be  contented  and  happy  was  a 
merit  —  'Good  child.'  After  that  she  gave  me  some 
shrimps,  and  when  tea  was  over  sent  me  out  for  a 
walk  on  the  beach.  The  servant  who  walked  with 
me  was  as  silent  as  her  mistress.  I  came  home,  went 
to  bed,  and  got  up  again  the  next  day,  still  feeling 
very  happy ;  but  the  quietude  of  everything  around 
me  was  working  its  due  and  natural  effect  in  making 
me  quieter  still.  To  meet  it,  and  to  harmonize  with 
it,  I  did  not  talk  aloud  to  my  Dutch  dolls,  nor  scold 
them  in  imitation  of  our  nurse's  accents ;  but  I 
whispered  to  them,  and  moved  about  my  playroom 
noiselessly.  '  Are  you  happy,  my  dear  ? '  asked  my 
relation  again,  when  I  came  down  to  dinner ;  and  I 
answered  again,  '  Yes,  ma'am.'  And  so  several  days 
passed,  and  the  servants,  as  well  as  the  mistress, 
praised  me,  and  called  me  the  best  and  the  quietest 
child  that  ever  came  into  a  house  —  no  trouble  at 
all,  and  as  neat  as  a  nun  !  But  I  was  beginning  to  be 
strangely  in  want  of  change.  I  wished  my  sister 
Bella,  or  even  my  noisy  brother  Tom,  could  see  my 
twelve  dolls,  all  dressed  in  the  grandest  gowns  pos- 
sible, and  could  help  me  to  dry  the  sea-weeds  that  I 
brought  in  from  the  sea-beach.  On  the  fourth  day  I 
bethought  myself  of  the  two  books,  and  I  well  remem- 
ber taking  one  of  them  to  the  little  open  window,  lay- 
ing it  down  on  the  sill,  and  opening  it.  What  a 

74 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

curious  picture  !  A  man  with  a  heavy  burden  on  his 
back,  standing  before  a  high  gate,  and  over  the  gate 
a  scroll.  '  Knock,'  was  written  upon  the  scroll,  '  and 
it  shall  be  opened  unto  you.'  The  man  seemed  to  be 
considering  whether  he  would  knock,  and  a  number 
of  angel  faces  were  looking  out  from  among  the 
clouds  to  see  whether  he  would. 

I  looked  at  that  picture  a  long  time,  then  began  one 
by  one  to  examine  the  numerous  woodcuts  which 
adorned  the  book.  There  were  lions  and  hobgoblins, 
and  giants,  and  angels,  and  martyrs,  and  there  was 
the  river  flowing  before  the  golden  gates ;  nothing 
that  could  awe  the  imagination  and  take  hold  on  the 
spirit  of  a  child  was  wanting. 

Specially  I  remember  dwelling,  with  childish  rever- 
ence, on  the  picture  of  the  river,  and  the  pilgrim 
entering  into  its  depths ;  and  pondering  over  the 
strange  and  to  me  unintelligible  meaning  of  the  beau- 
tiful words,  — 

'  Now  there  was  a  great  calm  at  that  time  in  the 
river ;  therefore  Mr.  Standfast,  when  he  was  about 
half-way  in,  he  stood  awhile,  and  talked  to  his  com- 
panions that  had  waited  upon  him  thither ;  and  he 
said  — 

'  "  This  river  hath  been  a  terror  to  many  ;  yea,  the 
thoughts  of  it  also  have  often  frightened  me :  now 
methinks  I  stand  easy :  my  foot  is  fixed  upon  that 
upon  which  the  feet  of  the  priests  that  bare  the  ark  of 
the  covenant  stood,  while  Israel  went  over  this  Jordan. 

'  "  The  waters  indeed  are  to  the  palate  bitter,  and 
to  the  stomach  cold  ;  yet  the  thoughts  of  what  I  am 
going  to,  and  the  conduct  that  awaits  me  on  the  other 

75 


DEBORAH'S  BOOK. 

side,  doth  lie  as  glowing  coal  at  my  heart 

I  have  formerly  lived  by  hearsay  and  by  faith,  but  now 
I  go  where  I  shall  live  by  sight,  and  shall  be  with  Him 
in  whose  company  I  delight  myself. 

'  "  I  have  loved  to  hear  my  Lord  spoken  of,  and 
wherever  I  have  seen  the  print  of  his  shoe  in  the 
earth,  there  have  I  coveted  to  set  my  foot  too." ' 

Extraordinary  words  !  their  pathos  and  their  sweet- 
ness reached  into  my  heart  even  at  that  early  day, 
though  their  meaning  was  shrouded  in  the  veil  that 
gathers  round  the  path  of  childhood.  I  hung  over 
the  picture,  and  hoped  the  man  with  the  solemn  face 
would  get  safely  to  that  golden  gate  ;  but  I  was  very 
much  afraid  for  him,  the  river  looked  so  deep.  I 
looked  at  the  angel  who  stooped  above  him  in  the  air 
with  a  crown  in  his  hand.  No  doubt  he  would  soon 
put  it  on.  Then  I  read  the  last  few  pages,  beginning 
with  how  the  pilgrims  reached  the  land  of  Beulah, 
*  where  the  sun  shineth  night  and  day.'  What  a  won- 
derful river  !  I  supposed  it  must  be  a  long  way  oft",  per- 
haps not  in  England  at  all,  and  England  was  a  large 
place ;  but  I  thought  I  should  like  to  find  it  some  day, 
and  did  not  know  that  '  some  day '  I  inevitably  should. 

That  night,  when  Deborah  was  curling  my  hair,  I 
said  to  her,  '  Deborah,  does  Mrs.  Wells  know  you 
have  got  that  book  about  the  pilgrims?' 

'  Can't  say  ; '  replied  Deborah  ;  '  may  be  she  does, 
may  be  not.' 

I  replied,    '  Then  hadn't  you  better  tell  her?  ' 

4  Bless  the  child,  why  ? '  said  Deborah. 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  explained  why,  or  perfectly 
knew  why,  but  I  had  an  impression  that  nobody  else 

76 


DEBORAHS    BOOK. 

had  such  a  book,  but  only  Deborah  ;  and  probably  my 
remarks  made  her  see  this,  for  I  distinctly  remember 
her  declaring  that  Mr.  Pipe,  the  bookseller  down  town, 
had  a  great  many  copies  of  that  very  book  ;  that  she 
was  sure  of  it,  and  that  she  herself  had  seen  them. 

My  next  question  I  remember  clearly,  owing,  per- 
haps, to  her  making  me  repeat  it  several  times.  It 
was,  '  Have  you  ever  seen  the  wicket  gate  ? ' 

Deborah  stood  as  if  bewildered  when  I  repeated  the 
query.  At  last,  her  face  suddenly  cleared,  and  she 
exclaimed,  '  Bless  the  child,  I  thought  she  meant  the 
real  thing,  that  I  did  !  Yes,  my  pretty  ;  I've  seen  it, 
to  be  sure,  and  a  very  pretty  picture  it  is  —  Christian 
just  a-going  to  knock  at  the  door,  and  ever  so  many 
angels  looking  on.  Hold  your  head  still,  Miss  Rosa- 
mond—  how  the  sea  air  does  take  your  hair  out  of 
curl !  ' 

'  Then,'  said  I,  '  you  have  only  seen  the  picture,  just 
the  same  as  I  have.' 

I  do  not  remember  what  followed,  excepting  that,  as 
Deborah  clearly  had  not  seen  the  wicket  gate,  I  began 
to  inquire  whether  anybody  in  the  neighborhood  had 
seen  it,  and  whether  Mr.  Pipe  had  seen  it,  or  had  ever 
been  to  look  for  it. 

Deborah,  to  all  and  each  of  my  questions,  replied, 
that  she  did  not  believe  anybody  had  seen  it,  or  had 
been  to  look  for  it ;  that  if  anybody  knew  anything 
about  it,  she  should  judge  Mr.  Pipe  did,  for  she  often 
saw  him  reading  in  his  shop  as  she  went  by,  and  every- 
body said  he  was  a  very  religious  man.  Deborah,  in 
answer  to  my  urgent  questions,  was  induced  to  say  that 
she  judged  the  wicket  gate  must  be  a  long  way  ofT; 

77 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

and  when  I  inquired  whether  it  was  farther  off  than 
Dungeness,  that  is  to  say,  more  than  ten  miles  off,  she 
said,  '  Yes,  it  must  be  a  deal  farther,  I  think.'  More- 
over she  drew  my  curtains,  and  placed  me  in  bed,  and, 
kissing  me,  added  that  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  need  not 
to  trouble  my  head  about  any  wicket  gate,  nor  nothing 
of  the  sort ;  that  I  should  find  out  what  it  all  meant 
when  I  was  older ;  but  she  could  not  explain  it  to  me 
now,  as  I  was  not  able  to  understand  it. 

Children  do  not  lie  awake  to  think  of  anything,  how- 
ever wonderful.  At  least  I  never  did,  nor  did  I  ever 
know  a  child  who  did,  excepting  in  a  book.  I  fell 
asleep,  and  after  that  two  or  three  mornings  passed, 
during  which  I  was  absorbed  in  my  book,  and  full  of 
wonder  as  to  whether  I  ought  not  to  go  on  pilgrimage 
too.  In  my  exceeding  simplicity  of  mind,  I  began  to 
save  pieces  of  bread  from  my  meals,  and  sugar-plums 
and  cake  that  had  been  given  me,  to  take  with  me  on 
the  journey  ;  and,  as  being  found  quite  trustworthy,  I 
was  now  allowed  every  day  to  go  out  on  the  beach  by 
myself,  or  to  play  in  the  little  belt  of  wood  behind  my 
relative's  house.  I  spent  hours  in  speculating  as  to 
whether  the  lions  were  not  so  far  off  that  one  could 
not  hear  them  roar  if  those  waves  would  leave  off 
surging  and  splashing  among  the  pebbles  ;  and 
whether,  if  I  did  set  out  on  pilgrimage,  Evangelist 
would  be  likely  to  come  and  show  me  the  way. 

One  night,  while  Deborah  was  again  curling  my 
hair,  I  looked  at  the  red  glowing  clouds  piled  up  in 
the  glorious  west,  and  reflecting  their  splendor  upon 
the  sea,  and  I  remember  certain  things  that  she  and  I 
said  together.  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  had  no  inten- 

7S 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

tion  of  conveying  a  false  impression  to  my  mind, 
though  she  certainly  did  so  ;  for. I  recollect  asking  her 
distinctly,  whether  she  thought  I  might  go  on  a  pil- 
grimage. Whereupon  she  answered,  '  Surely,  surely, 
Miss  Rosamond.' 

I  might,  then  ! 

Slid  also  told  me  that  the  narrow  road  along  which 
Christian  went,  and  which  led  to  the  city  of  the  golden 
gates,  was  the  road  that  we  all  ought  to  walk  in  ;  and, 
without  at  all  explaining  the  allegory,  she  proceeded 
to  say  that  it  led  to  heaven. 

I  "went  to  bed  resolved  to  go  on  pilgrimage,  and 
when,  the  next  morning,  I  was  told  to  put  on  my  bon- 
net and  tippet,  to  go  out  and  play  as  usual,  I  took  all 
the  pieces  of  bread  that  I  had  saved,  and  my  favorite 
Dutch  doll  with  a  red  frock,  that  I  thought  I  could  not 
part  with,  and  went  out. 

I  went  through  the  garden,  and  into  the  little  belt 
of  wood.  Here  I  sat  down,  and  jpegan  to  ponder. 
Assuredly  the  wonderful  story  had  said  that  there  was 
but  one  way  to  get  to  heaven,  and  that  was  through  the 
wicket  gate.  How  should  I,  O,  how  should  I  find 
this  wicket  gate  !  I  think  that,  in  my  perplexity  and 
fear  lest  it  was  my  own  fault  that  I  could  not  find  the 
gate,  I  began  to  cry ;  certainly  I  have  a  sort  of  recol- 
lection that  my  eyes  were  dazzled  and  dim,  and  that 
when  they  cleared,  some  small  brown  object,  which 
stood  at  my  feet,  upon  a  dwarf  fox-glove,  suddenly 
spread  open  a  pair  of  lovely  blue  wings.  A  butterfly  ! 
O,  the  most  beautiful  little  butterfly  in  the  world  !  All 
thoughts  of  pilgrimage  fled  away  as  it  fluttered  its 
wings  and  floated  oft'  to  another  flower,  drawing  me 

79 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

rtfler  it  as  surely  as  many  a  pretty  thing  of  no  higher 
worth  has  drawn  older  hearts  from  their  thoughts  of 
pilgrimage.  I  ran  after  it,  stopped  again  and  saw  it 
settle,  close  up,  and  show  me  once  more  those  brown 
wings,  mottled  with  silver,  and  shaded  oft'  into  the 
softest  fawn  color.  I  was  close  to  it,  and  took  ofT  my 
veil,  my  blue  veil,  which  I  always  wore,  hoping  to 
catch  it ;  but  it  flew  away  again  ;  and  presently,  as  I 
looked,  I  saw  two  butterflies  instead  of  one  —  my 
beauty  had  met  with  a  companion  —  and  they  were 
fluttering  together  towards  the  great  down  which  lay 
behind  the  wood. 

To  this  place  I  followed,  and,  running  after  them 
over  a  few  yards  of  short  grass,  I  came  to  a  deep  hol- 
low, full  of  ferns,  and  edged  with  camomile,  bird's-eye, 
and  dwarf  thistles.  There,  basking  in  the  sun,  some 
hanging  to  the  leaves  with  folded  wings,  some  spread- 
ing them  to  the  light  and  warmth,  I  counted  blue  but- 
terflies by  tens  and  by  twenties,  and  in  breathless 
ecstasy  stood  considering  how  I  should  appropriate 
some  of  them,  and  get  them  to  live  happily  in  my  veil, 
with  some  flowers,  and  my  splendid  Dutch  doll,  in  her 
red  damask  gown,  for  their  lady  and  queen. 

About  an  hour  was  probably  passed  in  catching  a 
sufficient  number  for  my  purpose.  It  was  difficult  to 
do  this  without  hurting  them,  and  as  fast  as  I  captured 
one  with  my  veil  others  escaped ;  at  last  I  had  about  a 
dozen,  and  collecting  some  of  the  prettiest  red  and 
white  flowers,  and  setting  my  doll  among  them,  I  tied 
up  the  veil  with  its  own  strings,  and  not  doubting  that 
the  butterflies  must  be  proud  and  happy  in  such  a 
splendid  prison,  I  emerged  from  the  hollow,  and  set 

So 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

my  feet  again  upon  the  open  down  ;  but  this  winding 
hollow  was  a  long  one  —  I  had  followed  it  probably 
for  half  a  mile  —  and  when  I  came  up  again  there  was 
a  green  hill  between  me  and  the  sea,  and  I  did  not 
exactly  know  where  I  was ;  so  I  turned  in  the  other 
direction,  and  I  well  remember  the  sudden  surprise, 
amazement  I  may  say,  with  which  I  saw  one  of  the 
commonest  sights  possible  —  namely,  a  narrow  path, 
in  which  I  was  standing,  and  which,  with  many  wind- 
ings and  meanderings,  led  away  over  the  open  grass, 
and  lost  itself  in  the  distance  among  confused  outlines 
of  the  swelling  hills.  Could  this  be  the  narrow  way? 

I  cannot  say  that  I  was  satisfied  by  any  means  to 
think  that  it  was,  but  my  mind  was  filled  with  childish 
awe,  and  I  went  a  little  way  along  it  till,  casting  my 
eyes  not  more  than  half-a-mile  before  me,  I  saw,  —  O, 
wonderful !  almost  terrible  sight !  it  was  so  convin- 
cing, and  brought  the  dreamy  wonder  so  near,  —  I  saw, 
toiling  on  before  me,  a  man  with  a  burden  on  his  back  ; 
a  man  that  now  I  should  call  a  pedler ;  but  then  it 
ivas,  and  could  only  be,  a  pilgrim.  So  then,  this  'was 
the  narrow  path  ;  and  in  the  plentitude  of  my  infantine 
simplicity  I  wondered  whether  the  people  doivn  town 
knew  of  it ;  and  I  went  on,  still  carefully  carrying  my 
pretty  blue  flutterers,  for  perhaps  a  mile,  when,  to  my 
utter  confusion,  the  path  branched  into  three  —  three 
distinct  paths  —  and,  what  was  more,  the  pilgrim 
whom  I  was  following  had  descended  into  a  hollow, 
and  had  disappeared. 

Which  of  these  three  paths,  then,  should  I  follow? 
One  of  them  seemed  to  lead  back  again  towards  the 
town  ;  a  second,  I  thought,  was  rather  too  wide  and 
**  81 


DEBORAHS    BOOK. 

too  straight ;  so  I  chose  the  third  for  my  little  feet, 
especially  as  I  thought  it  was  the  one  in  which  I  had 
last  seen  the  pedler — I  mean  the  pilgrim  —  I  hope 
he  may  have  been  one. 

Not  to  make  my  story  too  long,  I  wandered  about 
till  grass  began  to  be  mingled  with  ferns,  and  ferns 
gave  place  to  ling,  then  in  full  blosom  ;  at  last  my 
path  fairly  ended,  and  before  me  rose  a  sandy  beach, 
crowned  with  dwarf  oaks,  and  sprinkled  with  fox- 
gloves and  furze.  I  had  quite  lost  my  way,  and  my 
path  had  been  swallowed  up  in  verdure.  I  was  in  a 
great  perplexity  ;  and,  after  climbing  to  the  top  of  the 
bank,  I  looked  around  and  found  myself  at  the  brink 
of  a  great  open  place,  part  down,  part  heath,  inter- 
sected with  many  paths,  but  no  one  more  like  than 
another  to  the  path  that  led  to  the  wicket  gate.  I 
looked  back  and  saw  several  better  tracks,  but  could 
not  be  sure  which  was  the  one  I  had  come  by ;  so 
large,  and  so  smooth,  and  so  uniform  was  the  waste 
of  grass  which,  owing  to  my  having  attained  an  ele- 
vated spot,  was  now  lying  spread  before  me. 

It  may  have  then  been  about  noonday,  and  I  had 
perhaps  been  out  about  three  hours  ;  so  I  was  neither 
tired  nor  hungry  as  yet,  and  kept  wandering  about  in 
search  of  the  way.  At  last  I  saw  an  elderly  gentle- 
man coming  towards  me  on  a  little  pony.  He  cer- 
tainly was  not  a  pilgrim  ;  and  yet  I  rejoiced  to  see 
him.  Mamma  had  never  told  me  not  to  look  for  the 
wicket  gate,  therefore,  however  strange  it  may  appear, 
I  certainly  had  no  consciousness  of  doing  wrong.  I 
had  been  crying  a  little  before  he  appeared,  not  know- 
ing what  to  do,  nor  where  to  turn  ;  and  when  he  ap- 

82 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

preached  I  was  considering  what  I  should  say,  when 
he  saved  me  the  trouble,  and  exclaimed,  not  without  a 
look  of  surprise,  '  Where  is  your  nurse,  little  girl  ? ' 

'  Nurse  is  at  home  with  mamma,'  I  replied. 

'  And  what  are  you  doing  here  all  by  yourself? '  he 
asked. 

I  replied  in  all  simplicity,  '  If  you  please,  I  am  look- 
ing for  the  wicket  gate.' 

'  The  wicket  gate  !  Humph.  Well/  shading  his 
eyes  and  staring  around,  'I  don't  see  one.  Is  it  a 
white  gate?' 

'  I  don't  know,  sir.' 

'  You  don't  know  !  You  are  a  very  little  girl  to  be 
finding  your  way  by  yourself  in  such  a  place  as  this. 
Do  you  know  which  side  of  the  heath  it  is  on  ? ' 

'  No,  sir.' 

'  Well,  well,'  rejoined  my  questioner,  with  great 
impatience,  'do  you  know  where  it  leads  to?' 

'  O,  yes,  sir  ;  it  leads  to  heaven.'  Here  at  least  was 
one  question  that  I  could  answer ;  but  never  shall  I 
forget  the  face  of  blank  amazement  with  which  he 
heard  me.  I  was  rather  frightened  at  it,  and  began 
to  explain,  in  a  great  hurry,  that  I  had  read  in  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress  about  the  wicket  gate,  and  that 
Deborah  had  said  I  might  go  on  pilgrimage  ;  and  after 
this  incoherent  account  I  began  to  cry  piteously,  and 
begged  the  gentleman,  if  he  could  not  show  me  the 
way  to  the  gate,  to  tell  me  the  way  home,  because  my 
relative  would  be  so  angry,  so  very  angry,  if  I  was 
late  for  dinner. 

He  had  descended  from  his  pony,  and  now  asked 
abruptly,  '  How  old  are  you,  child?' 

83 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

'  Six  years  and  a  half,'  I  replied,  sobbing. 

'  Six  years  and  a  half,'  was  his  not  very  proper 
answer,  '  and  looking  out  for  heaven  already  ! '  But 
being  now  really  alarmed  as  to  whether  I  should  ever 
find  either  the  gate  or  my  home  again,  I  cried  and 
sobbed  heartily,  till  he  sat  down  on  the  bank,  and  tak- 
ing me  on  his  knee,  began  to  wipe  my  eyes  with  his 
silk  pocket-handkerchief,  and  assure  me  that  he  would 
soon  take  me  home  again,  for  that  he  knew  the  way 
quite  well ;  we  were  not  more  than  two  miles  from  the 
beach,  and  so  I  need  not  cry,  for  we  should  set  off 
home  as  soon  as  I  could  leave  off  sobbing. 

Thereupon  being  at  ease  in  my  mind,  and  perfectly 
satisfied  in  the  good  company  of  the  elderly  gentle- 
man, he  and  I  '  fell  into  easy  discourse '  together.  He 
seemed  anxious  to  investigate  this  rather  strange  fancy, 
and  he  asked  me  what  I  had  intended  to  eat  on  my 
pilgrimage.  I  showed  him  the  various  pieces  of  stale 
bread  and  bun  that  I  had  saved,  and  he  fell  into  explo- 
sions of  loud  laughter,  which  left  his  face  crimson,  and 
his  eyes  full  of  tears ;  but  he  must  have  been  a  very 
kind  elderly  gentleman,  for  he  shortly  after  set  me  on 
his  little  pony,  and  as  he  led  it  homewards  over  the 
down,  he  not  only  assured  me  that  we  should  be  back 
in  time  for  dinner,  but  he  took  a  great  deal  of  pains  to 
impress  on  my  mind  that  I  was  never  to  try  to  go  on 
pilgrimage  again  while  I  was  staying  at  the  sea-side, 
nor  afterwards  without  consulting  my  mamma.  I 
promised  that  I  would  not ;  and  in  a  very  short  space 
of  time,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  we  came  down  to  the 
beach,  and  found  ourselves  at  my  relative's  gate. 
Here,  as  I  well  remember,  my  dread  of  being  Lite 

84 


DEBORAH  S    BOOK. 

induced  me  to  beg  my  new  friend  not  to  leave  me  till 
I  had  ascertained  that  dinner  was  not  ready ;  so  he 
left  his  pony  at  the  gate,  and  came  up  to  the  door. 
His  ring  at  the  bell  was  soon  answered ;  he  explained 
to  the  maid  that  I  had  lost  my  way  on  the  downs,  and 
he  had  brought  me  home.  I  was  comforted  with  the 
assurance  that  I  was  just  in  time  for  dinner,  so  I  grate- 
fully kissed  my  new  friend,  and  took  leave  of  him. 

Thus  ended  my  first  attempt  at  pilgrimage,  leaving 
nothing  behind  it  but  a  veil  full  of  blue  butterflies.  I 
know  it  was  a  childish  attempt,  but  I  believe  it  was 
sincere  ;  it  had  something  of  that  faith  about  it  which 
made  the  patriarch  content  long  since  to  '  go  forth, 
not  knowing  whither  he  went ; '  but  it  was  an  ignorant 
faith,  and  one  that  would  not  give  up  all ;  it  must 
needs  carry  a  doll  with  it  for  comfort  and  admiration 
by  the  way,  and  it  could  not  help  gathering  butterflies, 
things  too  lovely  and  too  precious,  as  it  seemed,  to  be 
passed  by.  To  the  follies  of  our  childhood,  and  for 
its  faults  and  its  short-comings,  He  will  be  tender  who 
knows  the  heart  of  a  child ;  but  if  since  childhood, 
setting  forth  on  pilgrimage,  we  have  striven  to  take 
with  us  the  goods  and  the  delights  of  this  world ;  if 
we  have  turned  back  again,  lest  our  friends  should  be 
displeased  ;  if  we  have  wavered  because  any  laughed 
at  us,  let  us  pray  not  only  that  He  '  would  forgive  us 
our  trespasses,'  but  that  He  would  '  pardon  the  iniquity 
of  our  holy  things.' 

85 


THE  LIFE  OF  MR.  JOHN  SMITH. 

THIS  great  and  good  man,  every  event  of  whose 
life  is  well  worth  preserving,  was  born  in  the 
parish  of  Cripplegate  Within,  at  half-past  ten  on  Fri- 
day, the  ist  of  April,  1780.  He  was  the  only  child  of 
his  parents,  who,  perceiving  from  the  first  his  uncom- 
mon sweetness  of  disposition,  and  acuteness  of  intellect, 
felt  a  natural  pride  in  watching  his  progress  through 
infancy. 

At  seven  months  he  cut  his  first  tooth  ;  at  fourteen 
months  he  could  run  alone,  and  such  was  his  preco- 
city, that,  at  two  years  and  a  half,  he  could  speak  his 
mother  tongue  sufficiently  well  to  be  able  to  ask  for 
what  he  wanted. 

He  began  to  Jiearn  his  letters  as  early  as  three  years 
old,  and  soon  mastered  the  whole  alphabet,  which  he 
would  repeat  with  beautiful  precision  upon  the  offer 
of  an  apple  or  a  ginger-bread  nut. 

His  father  was  a  brazier,  and  had  a  very  good  busi- 
ness. Jack,  as  he  was  then  called,  was  allowed  the 
range  of  the  shop,  and  possession  of  all  the  nails  that 
he  could  find  lying  about ;  thus  he  soon  learned  to  dis- 
tinguish between  tin  tacks,  ten-pennies,  and  brass 

87 


THE    LIFE    OF 

heads,  and  having  a  small  hammer  of  his  own,  used 
to  amuse  himself  with  knocking  them  by  dozens  into  a 
door  in  the  yard,  which  was  soon  so  thickly  studded 
with  them,  that  you  could  not  see  the  wood  between. 

He  also  had  a  tin  saucepan,  which  was  given  him 
on  his  seventh  birthday  by  his  indulgent  father,  and  in 
this  he  often  made  toffee  and  hard-bake  for  his  own 
eating,  and  thus,  while  still  a  mere  babe,  his  mind 
was  turned  to  philosophical  and  scientific  pursuits ; 
for  by  means  of  his  nails  and  hammer  he  learned  the 
difference  between  wood  and  metal,  and  also  the  de- 
gree of  force  required  to  drive  the  one  into  the  other, 
whilst  with  the  aid  of  his  saucepan  he  taught  himself 
many  a  lesson  in  the  science  of  eating,  —  for  that  it  is 
a  science,  Soyer  has  lately  demonstrated  to  the  philo- 
sophical world. 

At  seven  years  old,  he  being  already  able  to  read 
almost  any  English  book  that  was  placed  before  him, 
his  father  and  mother  consulted  together  and  resolved 
to  send  him  to  a  school  at  Clapham.  There  he  made 
such  progress  as  exceeded  their  most  sanguine  hopes, 
and  from  this  school  he  wrote  his  first  letter,  which 
has  been  preserved,  and  runs  as  follows  :  — 

'  DEAR  FATHER,  —  I  like  school  a  great  deal  better 
than  I  did  at  first.  My  jacket  has  got  two  great  holes 
in  it,  so  I  am  forced  to  wear  my  Sunday  one.  We 
always  have  roast  beef  and  Yorkshire  puddirf  for 
dinner  on  Sunday,  and  the  boys  are  very  glad  of  all 
the  nails  and  screws  and  nuts  I  brought  with  me,  and 
if  I  might  have  some  more  when  mother  sends  my 
cake  and  the  three  pots  of  jam,  and  the  glue,  and  the 

88 


MR.   JOHN    SMITH. 

cobbler's  wax,  and  the  cabbage-nets,  and  the  pack- 
thread, and  the  fishing-hooks,  and  the  knife,  and  the 
new  fishing-rod  that  I  asked  for  when  she  came  to  see 
me,  we  should  all  be  very  glad. 

'  We  have  dug  a  hole  in  the  playground  nearly 
fifteen  feet  deep,  we  mean  to  dig  till  we  get  to  water, 
and  on  half-holidays  we  fish  in  the  water  on  the  com- 
mon, where  there  is  an  island.  The  boys  want  to 
make  a  bridge  to  reach  it,  but  we  haven't  got  anything 
to  make  it  of.  We  have  not  got  any  fish  yet,  only 
newts  out  of  that  water,  but  we  saw  a  good  large  one 
on  Saturday,  and  Cooper  says  he  is  determined  he'll 
have  him.  Cooper  can  fish  beautifully. 

'  Dear  father,  the  thieves  have  stolen  all  the  apples 
out  of  the  garden,  which  is  a  great  pity.  I  send  my 
love  to  my  mother. 

'  I  remain,  dear  father,  your  dutiful  son, 

'JOHN  SMITH.' 

This  interesting  letter  was  read  by  his  parents  with 
tears  of  joy  ;  indeed,  from  this  time  till  their  son  was 
fifteen  years  old,  he  gave  them  neither  trouble  nor 
anxiety,  excepting  twice  —  namely,  when  he  took  the 
measles,  and  when  he  fought  with  another  boy,  and 
came  home  with  a  black  eye. 

At  fifteen,  he  was  apprenticed  to  his  father,  and 
during  his  apprenticeship  his  career  was  as  brilliant  as 
could  have  been  desired.  Of  course  he  liked  to  be 
well  dressed,  which  his  mother  felt  to  be  the  natural 
consequence  of  his  good  looks.  He  also  liked  now 
and  then  to  spend  an  afternoon  in  the  parks,  looking 
about  him,  which  his  father  was  glad  of;  for  with  such 

89 


THE    LIFE    OF 

powers  of  observation  as  he  was  endowed  with  it  was 
highly  desirable  that  he  should  not  be  without  oppor- 
tunity for  exercising  them. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  had  done  growing,  and 
measured  five  feet  eight  in  his  shoes  ;  hair  brown,  with 
a  slight  twist  in  it,  scarcely  amounting  to  a  curl ;  com- 
plexion moderately  fair,  and  eyes  between  gray  and 
green.  When  his  apprenticeship  was  over  he  paid  his 
addresses  to  the  second  daughter  of  a  bookseller  in 
Cheapside,  and  married  her  after  a  three  years'  court- 
ship. During  the  next  eleven  years,  Mr.  Smith  was 
blessed  with  seven  children — John,  his  eldest  son; 
Mary,  named  after  her  grandmother  ;  Fanny,  Thomas, 
Elizabeth,  James,  and  Sarah. 

A  few  days  after  the  birth  of  this  last,  his  father 
died,  leaving  him  the  braziery  business,  and  four  thou- 
sand pounds  in  the  funds.  Mr.  Smith  was  a  kind  son. 
His  mother  lived  with  him,  and  her  old  age  was 
cheered  by  the  sight  of  his  honors,  worth,  and  talents. 
About  this  time  he  took  out  a  patent  for  a  new  kind 
of  poker ;  and  in  the  same  year  his  fellow-citizens 
showed  their  sense  of  his  deserts  by  making  him  an 
alderman  of  London. 

Happy  in  the  esteem  of  all,  and  in  the  possession 
of  a  good  business,  he  lived  very  quietly  till  he 
reached  the  age  of  fifty,  when  his  mother  died,  and 
wras  respectably  buried  by  her  son  in  the  parish  church 
of  Cripplegate. 

His  eldest  son  being  now  able  to  take  charge  of  the 
shop  and  business,  Mr.  Smith  resolved  to  travel  for  a 
month  or  two.  He  accordingly  went  to  Ramsgate, 
where  he  enjoyed  much  intellectual  pleasure  in  the 

90 


MR.   JOHN    SMITH. 

prospect  of  the  glorious  ocean,  and  the  fine  vessels 
which  continually  appeared  in  the  offing. 

He  was  a  true  patriot,  and,  as  he  wandered  on  the 
heach,  in  his  buff  slippers  and  straw  hat,  with  an 
umbrella  over  his  head  to  shield  him  from  the  sun,  he 
might  often  have  been  heard  to  sing,  with  laudable 
pride,  '  Rule  Britannia  !  Britannia  rules  the  waves  ! ' 

After  sojourning  for  three  weeks  at  Ramsgate  he 
went  northward ;  nor  did  he  stop  till  he  had  reached 
that  city  so  renowned  for  its  beauty  as  often  to  be 
called  the  mo.dern  Athens  —  we  mean  Edinburgh. 
Mr.  Smith  wrote  home  frequently  from  thence  to  his 
family,  and  made  many  valuable  remarks  on  the  dialect 
and  manners  of  the  inhabitants  ;  but  it  would  appear 
that  he  did  not  altogether  approve  of  what  he  saw, 
for  in  a  letter  to  his  son,  after  praising  the  goodness  of 
the  houses,  and  the  excellence  of  the  gas-fittings,  and, 
indeed,  of  everything  in  the  iron  and  brass  depart- 
ments, he  observed  that  the  poultry  was  tough  and 
badly  fed,  and  that  the  inhabitants  had  a  most  un- 
warrantably high  opinion  of  their  city,  '  which  I  can 
tell  you,  is  as  dull  compared  to  London,'  he  continued, 
'  as  the  British  Museum  is  compared  with  the  Pantheon 
in  Oxford  Street.'  He  also,  in  the  same  letter,  made 
some  new  and  valuable  remarks  on  the  lateness  of  the 
season  in  the  North.  In  proof  of  the  difference  be- 
tween London  and  Edinburgh  he  told  his  son  that 
strawberries  were  then  in  full  perfection  in  the  latter 
city,  though  it  was  past  the  middle  of  August. 

Some  years  after  Mr.  Smith's  return  he  was  elected 
churchwarden  for  the  parish  of  Cripplegate,  and  per- 
formed the  duties  of  that  situation  with  great  satisfac- 

91 


THE    LIFE   OF 

tion  to  the  inhabitants,  heading  the  subscription  to  the 
starving  Irish  with  a  donation  of  £5.  In  the  same 
year  he  gave  £10  to  the  Middlesex  Hospital. 

'It  was  not  till  he  reached  his  sixty-eighth  year  that 
Mr.  Smith  retired  from  the  premises  and  the  sphere 
he  had  so  long  adorned.  He  then -gave  up  the  busi- 
ness to  his  sons,  and  retired  with  his  wife  to  a  pleasant 
residence  on  Stamford  Hill. 

He  retained  his  superior  faculties  to  the  last ;  for,  at 
the  time  when  there  was  so  much  stir  about  the  Nine- 
veh Marbles,  he  went,  though  very  infirm,  to  see  them, 
and,  with  his  usual  sound  sense,  remarked  that  they 
did  not  answer  his  expectations  :  as  there  was  so  much 
marble  in  the  country,  and  also  Derbyshire  spar,  he 
wondered  that  Government  had  not  new  articles  manu- 
factured, instead  of  sending  abroad  for  old  things 
which  were  cracked  already. 

At  the  age  of  seventy  Mr.  Smith  died,  universally 
respected,  and  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  at  Kensall 
Green. 

'  And  is  this  all  ?'  cries  the  indignant  reader. 

All  ?  I  am  amazed  at  your  asking  such  a  question  ! 
I  should  have  thought  you  had  had  enough  of  it !  Yes, 
it  is  all ;  and  to  tell  you  a  secret,  which,  of  course,  I 
would  not  proclaim  to  the  world,  I  should  not  be  in 
the  least  surprised  if  your  biography,  up  to  the  pres- 
ent date,  is  not  one  bit  better  worth  writing. 

What  have  yoti  done,  I  should  like  to  know?  and 
what  are  you,  and  what  have  you  been,  that  is  better 
worth  recording  than  the  sayings  and  doings  recorded 
here?  You  think  yourself  superior?  Well,  you  may 
be,  certainly  ;  and  to  reflect  that  you  are,  is  a  comfort- 

92 


MR.   JOHN    SMITH. 

able  thing  for  yourself.  And  notwithstanding  that  1 
say  this,  I  have  a  true  regard  for  you,  and  am  far  from 
forgetting  that  though  the  events  of  your  life  may  never 
be  striking,  or  worth  recording,  the  tenor  of  your  life 
may  be  useful  and  happy,  and  the  record  may  be 
written  on  high.  In  conclusion,  however,  I  cannot 
forbear  telling  you  that,  whether  you  are  destined  to 
be  great  or  little,  the  honor  of  writing  your  biography 
is  not  desired  by  your  obedient  servant  the  biographer 
of  Mr.  John  Smith. 

93 


THE   LONELY   ROCK. 


THE  LONELY  ROCK. 

THREE  summers  ago  I  had  a  severe  illness,  and 
on  recovering  from  it,  my  father  took  me  for 
change  of  air,  not  to  one  of  our  pretty  townish  water- 
ing-places, but  up  to  the  very  North  of  Scotland,  to  a 
place  which  he  had  himself  delighted  in  when  a  boy, 
a  lonely  farm-house,  standing  on  the  shore  of  a  rocky 
bay  in  one  of  the  Orkneys. 

My  father  is  a  Highlander,  and  though  he  has  lived 
in  England  from  his  early  youth,  he  retains,  not  only 
a  strong  love  for  his  own  country,  but  a  belief  in  its 
healthfulness ;  he  is  fond  of  indulging  the  fancy  that 
scenery  which  the  fathers  have  delighted  in,  will  not 
strike  on  the  senses  of  the  children  as  something  new 
and  strange,  but  they  will  enter  the  hereditary  region 
with  a  half-formed  notion  that  they  must  have  seen  it 
before,  and  it  will  possess  a  soothing  power  over  them 
which  is  better  than  familiarity  itself. 

I  had  often  heard  my  father  express  this  idea,  but 
had  neither  understood  nor  believed  in  it.  The  list- 
lessness  of  illness  made  me  indifferent  as  to  what 
became  of  me,  and  during  our  steam  voyage  I  cared 
neither  to  move  nor  to  look  about  me.  But  the  result 
5  97 


THE    LONELY    ROCK. 

proved  that  my  father  was  right.  It  was  dark  when 
we  reached  our  destination,  but  I  no  sooner  opened 
my  eyes  the  next  morning  than  a  delightful  home-feel- 
ing came  over  me  ;  I  could  not  look  about  me  enough, 
and  yet  nothing  was  sufficiently  unexpected  to  cause 
me  the  least  surprise. 

It  was  August,  the  finest  part  of  the  northern  sum- 
mer ;  and  as  I  lay  on  pillows,  looking  out  across  the 
bay,  I  enjoyed  that  perfect  quietude  and  peace  so 
grateful  to  those  who  have  lately  suffered  from  the 
turmoil  and  restlessness  of  fever.  I  had  imagined 
myself  always  surrounded  by  shifting,  hurrying 
crowds,  always  oppressed  by  the  gaze  of  unbidden 
guests  ;  how  complete  and  welcome  was  this  change, 
this  seclusion  !  No  one  but  my  father  and  the  young 
servant  whom  we  had  brought  with  us  could  speak 
a  word  that  I  understood,  and  I  could  fall  asleep 
and  wake  again,  quite  secure  from  the  slightest  inter- 
ruption. 

By  the  first  blush  of  dawn  I  used  to  wake  up,  and 
lie  watching  that  quiet  bay  ;  there  would  be  the  shady 
crags,  dark  and  rocky,  lifting  and  stretching  them- 
selves as  if  to  protect  and  embrace  the  water,  which, 
perhaps,  would  be  lying  utterly  still,  or  just  lapping 
against  them,  and  softly  swaying  to  and  fro  the  long 
banners  of  seaweed  which  floated  out  from  them. 

Or,  perhaps,  a  thin  mist  would  be  hanging  across 
the  entrance  of  the  bay,  like  a  curtain  drawn  from 
cliff  to  cliff;  presently  this  snowy  cui'tain  would  turn 
of  an  amber  color,  and  glow  towards  the  centre  ;  once 
I  wondered  if  that  sudden  glow  could  be  a  ship  on 
fire,  and  watched  it  in  fear  ;  but  I  soon  saw  the  gigantic 


THE    LONELY    ROCK. 

sun  thrust  himself  up,  so  near,  as  it  seemed,  that  the 
farthest  cliffs  as  they  melted  into  the  mist  appeared 
farther  off  than  he  —  so  near,  that  it  was  surprising  to 
count  the  number  of  little  fishing-boats  that  crossed 
between  me  and  his  great  disk ;  still  more  surprising 
to  watch  how  fast  he  receded,  growing  so  refulgent 
that  he  dazzled  my  eyes,  while  the  mist  began  to 
waver  up  and  down,  curl  itself,  and  roll  away  to  sea, 
till  on  a  sudden  up  sprang  a  little  breeze,  and  the 
water,  which  had  been  white,  streaked  here  and  there 
with  a  line  of  yellow,  was  blue  almost  before  I  could 
mark  the  change,  and  covered  with  brisk  little 
ripples,  and  the  mist  had  melted  back  into  some 
half-dozen  caverns,  within  which  it  soon  receded  and 
was  lost. 

I  used  to  lie  and  learn  that  beautiful  bay  by  heart. 
In  the  afternoon  the  water  was  often  of  a  pale  sea- 
gi-een,  and  the  precipitous  cliffs  were  speckled  with 
multitudes  of  sea-birds  ;  and  bright  in  the  sunshine  I 
loved  to  watch  at  a  distance  the  small  mountain  goats 
climbing  from  point  to  point ;  wherever  there  was  a 
strip  of  grass  I  was  sure  to  see  their  white  breasts  ; 
but  above  all  things,  I  loved  to  watch  the  long  wavy 
reflection  of  a  tall  black  rock  which  was  perfectly 
isolated,  and  stood  out  to  sea  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
bay.  I  was  the  more  occupied  in  fancy  with  this  rock, 
because,  unlike  the  other  features  of  the  landscape,  it 
never  changed. 

The  sea  was  white,  it  was  yellow,  it  was  green,  it 
was  blue  ;  the  sea  was  gone  a  long  way  off,  and  the 
sands  were  bare  ;  the  sea  was  come  back  again,  was 
rushing  between  every  little  rock,  and  powdering  the 

99 


THE     LONELY   ROCK. 

tops  of  them  with  spray ;  the  sea  was  clear  as  a  mir- 
ror, and  white  gulls  were  swimming  on  it  by  thou- 
sands ;  the  sea  was  restless,  and  the  rocking  boats  were 
tossing  up  and  down  on  it.  And  the  cliffs?  In 
moonlight  they  were  castles,  and  they  were  ships  ;  in 
sunshine  they  were  black,  brown,  blue,  green,  and 
ruddy,  according  to  the  clouds  and  the  height  of  the 
sun.  Their  shadows,  too,  now  a  narrow  strip  at  their 
bases,  now  an  overshadowing  mass,  gave  endless 
variety  to  the  scene. 

But  this  one  black  rock  out  at  sea  never  seemed  to 
change.  In  appearance  at  that  distance  it  was  a  mas- 
sive column,  square,  and  bending  inward  at  the  centre, 
so  as  to  make  it  lean  towards  the  northern  shore. 
Considering  this  changeless  character,  it  was  rather 
strange  that  in  my  di'eams,  still  vivid  from  recent  ill- 
ness, this  column  always  assumed  the  likeness  of  a 
man.  A  stern  man  it  seemed  to  be,  with  head  sunk 
on  his  breast,  and  arms  gathered  under  the  folds  of  a 
dark  heavy  mantle  ;  yet  when  I  awoke  and  looked  out 
over  the  bay,  the  blue  moonbeams  would  not  drop  on 
my  rock,  or  its  reflection,  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
it  any  other  than  the  bare,  bleak,  bending  thing  that 
I  always  saw  it. 

In  a  week  I  was  able  to  come  out  of  doors,  and 
wander  by  the  help  of  my  father's  arm  along  the  strip 
of  yellow  sand  by  the  sea.  How  delightful  was  the 
feeling  of  leaf,  pebble,  sand,  or  seaweed  to  my  hand, 
which  so  long  had  been  used  to  nothing  but  the  soft 
linen  of  my  pillow  !  How  beautiful  and  fresh  every- 
thing looked  out  of  doors !  how  delicious  was  the 
sound  of  the  little  inch-deep  waves  as  they  ran  and 

100 


THE    LONELY    ROCK. 

spread  briskly  out  over  the  flat  green  floors  of  the 
caverns !  how  still  more  delicious  the  crisp  rustling 
of  the  displaced  pebbles,  when  these  capricious  waves 
receded ! 

And  the  caverns  !  How  I  stood  looking  into  them, 
sunny  and  warm  as  they  were  at  the  entrance,  ^nd 
gloomily  grand  within  !  What  a  pleasure^t  was  to 
think  that  the  world  should  be  so  full  of  beautiful 
places,  even  where  few  had  cared  to  look  at  them  ! 
how  wonderful  to  think  that  the  self-same  echo,  which 
answered  my  voice  when  I  sang  to  it,  was  always 
lying  there  ready  to  be  spoken  with,  though  rarely 
invoked  but  by  the  winds  and  the  waves ;  that  ever 
since  the  Deluge,  perhaps,  it  had  possessed  this  power 
to  mock  human  utterance,  but  unless  it  had  caught  up 
and  repeated  the  cries  of  some  drowning  fisher-boy,  or 
shipwrecked  mariner,  and  sent  them  back  again  more 
wild  than  before,  its  mocking  syllables  and  marvellous 
cadences  had  never  been  tested  but  by  me  ! 

And  the  first  sail  in  a  boat  was  a  pleasure  which 
can  never  be  forgotten. 

It  was  a  still  afternoon  when  we  stepped  into  that 
boat  —  so  still  that  we  had  oars  as  well  as  the  flapping 
sail ;  I  had  wished  to  row  out  to  sea  as  far  as  the  rock, 
and  now  I  was  to  have  my  wish.  On  and  on  we  went, 
looking  by  turns  into  the  various  clefts  and  caverns  ;  at 
last  we  stood  out  into  the  middle  of  the  bay,  and  very 
soon  we  had  left  the  cliffs  altogether  behind.  We 
were  out  in  the  open  sea,  but  still  the  rock  was  far 
before  us  ;  it  became  taller,  larger,  and  more  impor- 
tant, but  yet  it  presented  the  same  outline,  and  pre- 
cisely the  same  aspect,  when,  after  another  half-hour's 
101 


THE    LONELY    ROCK. 

rowing,  we  drew  near  it,  and  I  could  hear  the  water 
lapping  against  its  inhospitable  sides. 

The  men  rested  on  their  oars,  and  allowed  the  boat 
to  drift  down  towards  it.  There  it  stood,  high,  lonelv, 
inaccessible.  I  looked  up  ;  there  was  scarcely  a  crev- 
ice where  a  sea-fowl  could  have  built,  not  a  level  slip 
large  enough  for  human  foot  to  stand  upon,  nor  pro- 
jection for  hand  of  drowning  man  to  seize  on. 

Shipwreck  and  death  it  had  often  caused,  it  was  the 
dread  and  scourge  of  the  bay,  but  it  yielded  no  shelter 
nor  food  for  beast  or  bird  ;  not  a  blade  of  grass  waved 
there  —  nothing  stood  there. 

We  rowed  several  times  round  it,  and  every  moment 
I  became  more  impressed  with  its  peculiar  character 
and  situation,  so  completely'  aloof  from  everything  else 
—  even  another  rock  as  hard  and  black  as  itself,  stand- 
ing near  it,  would  have  been  apparent  companionship. 
If  one  goat  had  fed  there,  if  one  sea-bird  had  nestled 
there,  if  one  rope  of  tangled  seaweed  had  rooted  there, 
and  floated  out  on  the  surging  water  to  meet  the  swim- 
mer's hand  — -  but  no  ;  I  looked,  and  there  was  not  one. 
The  water  washed  up  against  it,  and  it  flung  back  the 
water  ;  the  wind  blew  against  it,  and  it  would  not  echo 
the  wind  ;  its  very  shadow  was  useless,  for  it  dropped 
upon  nothing  that  wanted  shade.  By  day  the  fisher- 
man looked  at  it  only  to  steer  clear  of  it,  and  by  night, 
if  he  struck  against  it,  he  went  down.  Hard,  dreary, 
bleak !  I  looked  at  it  as  we  floated  slowly  towards 
home ;  there  it  stood  rearing  up  its  desolate  head,  a 
forcible  image,  and  a  true  one,  of  a  thoroughly  selfish, 
a  thoroughly  unfeeling  and  isolated,  human  heart. 

Now  let  us  go  back  a  long  time,  and  talk  about 
102 


THE    LONELY    ROCK. 

things  which  happened  before  we  were  born.  I  do 
not  mean  centuries  ago,  when  the  sea-kings,  in  their 
voyages  plundering  that  coast,  drove  by  night  upon 
the  rock  and  went  down.  That  is  not  the  long  time 
ago  of  which  I  want  to  speak  ;  nor  of  that  other  long 
time  ago,  when  two  whaling  vessels,  large  and  deeply 
laden,  bounded  against  it  in  a  storm,  and  beat  up 
against  it  till  the  raging  waves  tore  them  to  pieces, 
and  splitting  and  grinding  every  beam  and  spar, 
scarcely  threw  one  piece  of  wreck  on  the  shore  which 
was  as  long  as  the  bodies  of  the  mariners.  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  of  the  many  fishing-boats  which  went  out 
and  were  seen  no  more  —  of  the  many  brave  men  that 
hard  by  that  fatal  place  went  under  the  surging  water, 
of  the  many  toiling  rowers  that  made,  as  they  thought, 
straight  for  home,  and  struck,  and  had  only  time  for 
one  cry  —  'The  Rock!  the  Rock!'  The  long  time 
ago,  of  which  I  mean  to  tell,  was  a  wild  night  in 
March,  during  which,  in  a  fisherman's  hut  ashore,  sat 
a  young  girl  at  her  spinning-wheel,  and  looked  out  on 
the  dark  driving  clouds,  and  listened,  trembling,  to  the 
wind  and  the  sea. 

The  morning  light  dawned  at  last.  One  boat  that 
should  have  been  riding  on  the  troubled  waves  was 
missing  —  her  father's  boat!  and  half  a  mile  from  his 
cottage,  her  father's  body  was  washed  up  on  the  shore. 

This  happened  fifty  years  ago,  and  fifty  years  is  a 
long  time  in  the  life  of  a  human  being ;  fifty  years  is  a 
long  time  to  go  on  in  such  a  course,  as  the  woman  did 
of  whom  I  am  speaking.  She  watched  her  father's 
body,  according  to  the  custom  of  her  people,  till  he 
was  laid  in  the  grave.  Then  she  lay  down  on  her  bed 
103 


THE    LONELY    ROCiv. 

and  slept,  and  by  night  got  up  and  set  a  candle  in  her 
casement,  as  a  beacon  to  the  fishermen  and  a  guide. 
She  sat  by  the  candle  all  night,  and  trimmed  it,  and 
spun  ;  then  when  day  dawned  she  went  to  bed  and 
slept  in  the  sunshine. 

So  many  hanks  as  she  had  spun  before  for  her  daily 
bread,  she  spun  still,  and  one  over,  to  buy  her  nightly 
candle  ;  and  from  that  time  to  this,  for  fifty  years, 
through  youth,  maturity,  and  old  age,  she  has  turned 
night  into  day,  and  in  the  snow-storms  of  winter, 
through  driving  mists,  deceptive  moonlight,  and  sol- 
emn darkness,  that  northern  harbor  has  never  once 
been  without  the  light  of  her  candle. 

How  many  lives  she  .saved  by  this  candle,  or  how 
many  a  meal  she  won  by  it  for  the  starving  families  of 
the  boatmen,  it  is  impossible  to  say ;  how  many  a 
dark  night  the  fishermen,  depending  on  it,  went  fear- 
lessly forth,  cannot  now  be  told.  There  it  stood,  reg- 
ular as  a  light-house,  steady  as  constant  care  could 
make  it.  Always  brighter  when  daylight  waned,  they 
had  only  to  keep  it  constantly  in  view  and  they  were 
safe ;  there  was  but  one  thing  that  could  intercept  it, 
and  that  was  the  Rock.  However  far  they  might 
have  stretched  out  to  sea,  they  had  only  to  bear  down 
straight  for  that  lighted  window,  and  they  were  sure 
of  a  safe  entrance  into  the  harbor. 

Fifty  years  of  life  and  labor  —  fifty  years  of  sleeping 
in  the  sunshine  —  fifty  years  of  watching  and  self- 
denial,  and  all  to  feed  the  flame  and  trim  the  wick 
of  that  one  candle  !  But  if  we  look  upon  the  recorded 
lives  of  great  men,  and  just  men,  and  wise  men,  few 
of  them  can  show  fifty  years  of  worthier,  certainly  not 
104 


THE    LONELY    ROCK. 

of  more  successful  labor.  Little,  indeed,  of  the  '  mid- 
night oil '  consumed  during  the  last  half  century  so 
worthily  deserved  the  trimming.  Happy  woman  — 
and  but  for  the  dreaded  rock  her  great  charity  might 
never  have  been  called  into  exercise  ! 

But  what  do  the  boatmen  and  the  boatmen's  wrives 
think  of  this  ?  Do  they  pay  the  woman  ? 

No  ;  they  are  very  poor ;  but  poor  or  rich,  they 
know  better  than  that. 

Do  they  thank  her? 

No.  Perhaps  they  feel  that  thanks  of  theirs  would 
be  inadequate  to  express  their  obligations,  or,  perhaps, 
long  years  have  made  the  lighted  casement  so  familiar, 
that  they  look  on  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Sometimes  the  fishermen  lay  fish  on  her  threshold, 
and  set  a  child  to  watch  it  for  her  till  she  wakes  ; 
sometimes  their  wives  steal  into  her  cottage,  now  she 
is  getting  old,  and  spin  a  hank  or  two  of  thread  for 
her  while  she  slumbers  ;  and  they  teach  their  children 
to  pass  her  hut  quietly,  and  not  to  sing  and  shout 
before  her  door,  lest  they  should  disturb  her.  That  is 
all.  Their  thanks  are  not  looked  for  —  scarcely  sup- 
posed to  be  due.  Their  grateful  deeds  are  more  than 
she  expects,  and  as  much  as  she  desires. 

How  often,  in  the  far  distance  of  my  English  home, 
I  have  awoke  in  a  wild  winter  night,  and  while  the 
wind  and  storm  were  rising,  have  thought  of  that 
northern  bay,  with  the  waves  dashing  against  the  rock, 
and  have  pictured  to  myself  the  casement,  and  the 
candle  nursed  by  that  bending,  aged  figure  !  How 
delightful  to  know  that  through  her  untiring  charity 
the  rock  has  long  lost  more  than  half  its  terrors,  and 
5*  105 


THE    LONELY    ROCK. 

to  consider  that,  curse  though  it  may  be  to  all  besides, 
it  has  most  surely  proved  a  blessing  to  her ! 

You,  too,  may  perhaps  think  with  advantage  on 
the  character  of  this  woman,  and  contrast  it  with  the 
mission  of  the  Rock.  There  are  many  degrees  be- 
tween them.  Few,  like  the  rock,  stand  up  wholly  to 
work  ruin  and  destruction  ;  few,  like  the  woman,  '  let 
their  light  shine '  so  brightly  for  good.  But  to  one  of 
the  many  degrees  between  them  we  must  all  most 
certainly  belong  —  we  all  lean  towards  the  woman  or 
the  rock.  On  such  characters  you  do  \vell  to  speculate 
with  me,  for  you  have  not  been  cheated  into  sympathy 
with  ideal  shipwreck  or  imaginary  kindness.  There 
is  many  a  rock  elsewhere  as  perilous  as  the  one  I  have 
told  you  of — perhaps  there  are  many  such  women; 
but  for  this  one,  whose  story  is  before  you,  pray  that 
her  candle  may  burn  a  little  longer,  since  this  record 
of  her  charity  is  true. 

1 06 


CAN  AND    COULD. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  Could  went  out  to  take  a 
walk  on  a  winterly  morning ;  he  was  very  much 
out  of  spirits,  and  he  was  made  more  so  by  the  neces- 
sity under  which  he  found  himself  to  be  frequently 
repeating  his  own  name.  '  O,  if  I  could,'  and  '  O 
that  I  were  rich  and  great,  for  then  I  could  do  so  and 
so.' 

About  the  tenth  time  that  he  said  this,  Can  opened 
the  door  of  her  small  house,  and  set  out  on  an  errand. 
She  went  down  a  back  street  and  through  a  poor 
neighborhood  ;  she  was  not  at  all  a  grand  personage, 
not  nearly  so  well  dressed,  or  lodged,  or  educated,  as 
Could ;  and,  in  fact,  was  altogether  more  humble, 
both  in  her  own  esteem  and  that  of  others.  She 
opened"  her  door  and  went  down  the  street,  neither 
sauntering  nor  looking  about  her,  for  she  was  in  a 
hurry. 

All  on  a  sudden,  however,  this  busy  little  Can 
stopped  and  picked  up  a  piece  of  orange  peel.  '  A 
dangerous  trick,'  she  observed,  '  to  throw  orange  peel 
about,  particularly  in  frosty  weather,  and  in  such  a 
crowded  thoroughfare  ; '  and  she  bustled  on  till  she 
107 


CAN    AND    COULD. 

overtook  a  tribe  of  little  children  who  were  scattering 
it  very  freely  ;  they  had  been  bargaining  for  oranges 
at  an  open  fruit  stall,  and  were  eating  them  as  they 
went  along.  '  Well,  it's  little  enough  that  I  have  in 
my  power,'  thought  Can,  '  but  certainly  I  can  speak 
to  these  children,  and  try  to  persuade  them  to  leave 
off  strewing  orange  peel. 

Can  stopped.  '  That's  a  pretty  baby  that  you  have 
in  your  arms,'  she  said  to  one  of  them  ;  '  how  old 
is  he.' 

'  He's  fourteen  months  old,'  answered  the  small 
nurse,  '  and  he  begins  to  walk ;  I  teach  him,  he's  my 
brother.' 

'  Poor  little  fellow,'  said  Can,  '  I  hope  you  are  kind 
to  him ;  you  know  if  you  were  to  let  him  fall  he 
might  never  be  able  to  walk  any  more.' 

'  I  never  let  him  drop,'  replied  the  child,  '  I  always 
take  care  of  my  baby.' 

'  And  so  do  I ; '  '  And  so  do  I,'  repeated  other 
shrill  voices,  and  two  more  babies  were  thrust  up  for 
Can's  inspection. 

'  But  if  you  were  to  slip  down  yourselves  on  this 
hard  pavement  you  would  be  hurt,  and  the  baby 
would  be  hurt  in  your  arms.  Look  !  how  can  you  be 
so  careless  as  to  throw  all  this  peel  about ;  don't  you 
know  how  slippery  it  is?' 

'  We  always  fling  it  down,'  said  one. 

'  And  I  never  slipped  down  but  once  on  a  piece,' 
remarked  another. 

'  But  was  not  that  once  too  often  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  I  grazed  my  arm  very  badly,  and  broke  a 
cup  that  I  was  carrying.' 

108 


CAN    AND    COULD. 

'  Well,  now,  suppose  you  pick  up  all  the  peel  you 
can  find ;  and  then  go  down  the  streets  round  about 
and  see  how  much  you  can  get ;  and  to  the  one  who 
finds  most,  when  I  come  back,  I  shall  give  a  penny.' 

So  after  making  the  children  promise  that  they 
would  never  commit  this  fault  again,  Can  went  on  ; 
and  it  is  a  remarkable  circumstance,  that  just  at  that 
very  moment,  as  Could  was  walking  in  quite  a  differ- 
ent part  of  London,  he  also  came  to  a  piece  of  orange 
peel  which  was  lying  across  his  path. 

'  What  a  shame  ! '  he  said,  as  he  passed  on  ;  '  what 
a  disgrace  it  is  to  the  city  authorities,  that  this  practice 
of  sowing  seed,  which  springs  up  into  broken  bones, 
cannot  be  made  a  punishable  offence ;  there  is  never  a 
winter  that  one  or  more  accidents  do  not  arise  from 
it !  If  I  could  only  put  it  down,  how  glad  I  should 
be  !  If,  for  instance,  I  could  ofTer  a  bribe  to  people  to 
abstain  from  it ;  or  if  I  could  warn  or  punish  ;  or  if  I 
could  be  placed  in  a  position  to  legislate  for  the  sup- 
pression of  this  and  similar  bad  habits.  But,  alas  !  my 
wishes  rise  far  above  my  powers  ;  my  philanthropic 
aspirations  can  find  no  — ' 

'  By  your  leave,'  said  a  tall  strong  man,  with  a  heavy 
coal  sack  on  his  shoulders. 

Could,  stepping  aside,  permitted  the  coal  porter  to 
pass  him.  '  Yes,'  he  continued,  taking  up  his  solilo- 
quy where  it  had  been  interrupted,  '  it  is  strange  that 
so  many  anxious  "wishes  for  the  welfare  of  his  species 
should  be  implanted  in  the  breast  of  a  man  who  has 
no  means  of  gratifying  them.'  The  noise  of  a  thun- 
dering fall,  and  the  rushing  down  as  of  a  great  shower 
of  stones,  made  Could  turn  hastily  round.  Several 
169 


CAN    AND    COULD. 

people  were  running  together,  they  stooped  over  some- 
thing on  the  ground,  it  was  the  porter ;  he  had  fallen 
on  the  pavement,  and  the  coals  lay  in  heaps  about  his 
head ;  some  people  were  clearing  them  away,  others 
were  trying  to  raise  him.  Could  advanced  and  saw 
that  the  man  was  stunned,  for  he  looked  about  him 
with  a  bewildered  expression,  and  talked  incoherently. 
Could  also,  observed  that  a  piece  of  orange  peel  was 
adhering  to  the  sole  of  his  shoe. 

'  How  sad  ! '  said  Could  ;  '  now,  here  is  the  bitter 
result  of  this  abuse.  If  I  had  been  in  authority  I  could 
have  prevented  this ;  how  it  chafes  the  spirit  to  per- 
ceive, and  be  powerless  !  Poor  fellow  !  he  is  evidently 
stunned,  and  has  a  broken  limb  —  he  is  lamed,  per- 
haps for  life.  People  are  certainly  very  active  and 
kind  on  these  occasions  :  they  seem  preparing  to 
take  him  to  the  hospital.  Such  an  accident  as  this  is 
enough  to  make  a  man  wish  he  could  be  a  king  or  a 
lawgiver  ;  what  the  poet  says  may  be  true  enough  :  — 

"  Of  all  the  ills  that  human  kind  endure, 
Small  is  that  part  which  laws  can  cause  or  cure." 

And  yet  I  think  I  could  have  framed  such  a  law,  that 
this  poor  fellow  might  now  have  been  going  about  his 
work,  instead  of  being  carried  to  languish  for  weeks 
on  a  sick  bed,  while  his  poor  family  are  half  starved, 
and  must  perhaps  receive  him  at  last,  a  peevish, 
broken-spirited  cripple,  a  burden  for  life,  instead  of 
a  support ;  and  all  because  of  a  pitiful  piece  of  scat- 
tered orange  peel ! ' 

While  Could  was  still  moralizing  thus,  he  got  into 
an  omnibus,  and  soon  found  himself  drawing  near  one 
no 


CAN    AXD    COULD. 

of  the  suburbs  of  London,  turning  and  winding  among 
rows  of  new  houses  with  heaps  of  bricks  before  them, 
and  the  smell  of  mortar  in  their  neighborhood ;  then 
among  railway  excavations  and  embankments,  and  at 
last  among  neat  villas  and  cottages  standing  in  gar- 
dens, with  here  and  there  a  field  behind  them.  Pres- 
ently they  passed  a  large  building,  and  Could  read 
upon  its  front,  '  Temporary  Home  for  Consumptive 
Patients.'  '  An  excellent  institution,'  he  thought  to 
himself;  '  here  a  poor  man  or  woman  can  have  a  few 
weeks  of  good  air,  good  food,  and  good  nursing,  the 
best  things  possible  for  setting  them  up,  at  least  for  a 
time.  I  have  often  thought  that  these  remedial  insti- 
tutions do  more  good,  on  the  whole,  than  mere  hos- 
pitals ;  and,  if  I  could  afford  it,  I  would  rather  be  the 
founder  of  one  of  them  than  of  places  with  more  ambi- 
tious aims  and  names.  It  is  sad  to  think  how  much 
consumption  is  on  the  increase  among  the  poor ;  bad 
air,  and  the  heated  places  where  so  many  of  them 
work,  give  these  winterly  blasts  a  terrible  power  over 
them.  But  it  is  my  lot  to  sigh  over  their  troubles 
without  being  able  to  soften  them.  A  small  compe- 
tence, a  fixed  income,  which  does  no  more  than  pro- 
vide for  my  own  wants,  and  procure  those  simple 
comforts  and  relaxations  which  are  necessary  to  me, 
is  of  all  things  least  favorable  for  the  realizing  of  my 
aspirations.  I  cannot  gratify  my  benevolent  wishes, 
though  their  constant  presence  shows  how  willingly  I 
would  if  I  could.' 

The  omnibus  stopped,  and  a  man,  in  clean  working 
clothes,  inquired  whether  there  was  an  inside  place. 

in 


CAN    AND    COULD. 

4  No,  there  is  not  one,'  said  the  conductor,  and  he 
looked  in  ;  most  of  the  passengers  were  women. 

'  Would  any  gentleman  like  to  go  outside  ? ' 

'  Like  ! '  thought  Could  with  a  laugh  ;  '  who  would 
like  in  such  a  wind  as  this,  so  searching  and  wild  ? 
Thank  Heaven,  I  never  take  cold ;  but  I  don't  want  a 
blast  like  this  to  air  the  lining  of  my  paletot,  make  it- 
self acquainted  with  the  pattern  of  my  handkerchief, 
and  chill  the  very  shillings  in  my  waistcoat  pocket.' 

'  Because,'  continued  the  conductor,  '  if  any  gentle- 
man would  like  to  go  outside,  here  is  a  person  who 
has  been  ill,  and  would  be  very  glad  of  a  place  within.' 

He  looked  down,  as  he  spoke,  upon  the  man,  whose 
clothes  were  not  well  calculated  to  defend  him  against 
the  weather,  and  who  looked  sickly,  and  had  a  hollow 
cough.  No  answer  came  from  within. 

'  I  must  get  outside,  then,'  said  the  man,  '  for  I  have 
not  much  time  for  waiting,'  so  he  mounted,  and  the 
driver  spread  part  of  his  own  wrapper  over  his  legs, 
another  passenger  having  lent  a  hand  to  help  him  up. 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  said  the  man ;  '  I  am  but  weak  ; 
but  I  am  sorry  to  give  you  the  trouble.' 

*  No  trouble,  no  trouble,'  answered  the  outside  pas- 
senger ;  and  he  muttered  to  himself,  '  You  are  not 
likely  to  trouble  any  one  long.' 

'  That's  where  you  come  from,  I  suppose,'  said  the 
driver,  pointing  with  his  whip  towards  the  house  for 
consumptive  patients. 

'  Yes,'  said  the  man,  '  I  have  been  very  ill  indeed  ; 

but  I  am  better  now,  wonderfully  better.     They  say  I 

may  last  for  years  with  proper  attention,  and  they  tell 

me  to  be  very  careful  of  weather  ;  but  what  can  I  do  ? ' 

112 


CAN    AND    COULD. 

'  It's  very  cold  and  windy  for  you  up  here,'  said 
the  driver. 

The  man  shivered,  but  did  not  complain  ;  he  looked 
about  him  with  a  bright  glitter  in  his  eyes,  and  every 
time  he  coughed  he  declared  that  he  was  much  better 
than  he  had  been. 

After  telling  you  so  much  about  Could,  his  kind 
wishes,  projects,  and  aspirations,  I  am  almost  ashamed 
to  mention  Can  to  you  again ;  however,  I  think  I  will 
venture,  though  her  aspirations,  poor  little  thing,  are 
very  humble  ones,  and  she  scarcely  knows  what  a 
project  means. 

So,  you  must  know  that  having  concluded  most  of 
her  business,  she  entered  a  shop  to  purchase  some- 
thing for  her  dinner ;  and  while  she  waited  to  be 
served  a  child  entered,  carrying  a  basket  much  too 
heavy  for  her  strength,  and  having  a  shawl  folded  up 
on.her  arm. 

'  What  have  you  in  your  basket  ? '  asked  Can. 

'  Potatoes  for  dinner,'  said  the  child. 

'  It's  very  heavy  for  you,'  remarked  Can,  observing 
how  she  bent  under  the  weight  of  it. 

'  Mother's  ill,  and  there's  nobody  to  go  to  the  shop 
but  me,'  replied  the  child,  setting  it  down,  and  blow- 
ing her  numbed  fingers. 

'  No  wonder  you  are  cold,'  said  Can  ;  '  why  don't 
you  put  your  shawl  on  instead  of  carrying  it  so  ? ' 

'  It's  so  big,'  said  the  child,  in  a  piteous  voice. 
'  Mother  put  a  pin  in  it,  and  told  me  to  hold  it  up  ; 
but  I  can't,  the  basket's  so  heavy,  and  I  trod  on  it  and 
fell  down.' 

'  It's  enough  to   give  the  child   her  death  of  cold,' 

"3 


CAN    AND    COULD. 

said  the  mistress  of  the  shop,  '  to  go  crawling  home  in 
this  bitter  wind,  with  nothing  on  but  that  thin  frock.' 

'  Come,'  said  Can,  '  I'm  not  very  clever,  but,  at 
least,  I  know  how  to  tie  a  child's  shawl  so  as  not  to 
throw  her  down.'  So  she  made  the  little  girl  hold 
out  her  arms,  and  drawing  the  garment  closely  round 
her,  knotted  it  securely  at  her  back.  '  Now,  then.' 
she  said,  having  inquired  where  she  lived,  '  I  am 
going  your  way,  so  I  can  help  you  to  carry  your 
basket." 

Can  and  the  child  then  went  out  together,  while 
Could,  having  reached  his  comfortable  home,  sat 
down  before  the  fire  and  made  a  great  many  reflec- 
tions ;  he  made  reflections  on  baths  and  -wash-houses, 
and  wished  he  could  advance  their  interests ;  he  made 
reflections  on  model  prisons  and  penitentiaries,  and 
wished  he  could  improve  them  ;  he  made  reflections 
on  the  progress  of  civilization,  on  the  necessity  for 
some  better  mode  of  educating  the  masses  ;  he  thought 
of  the  progress  of  the  human  mind,  and  made  grand 
projects  in  his  benevolent  head  whereby  all  the  true 
interests  of  the  race  might  be  advanced,  and  he  wished 
he  could  carry  them  into  practice  ;  he  reflected  on 
poverty,  and  made  castles  in  the  air  as  to  how  he 
might  mitigate  its  severity,  and  then  having  in  im- 
agination made  many  people  happy,  he  felt  that  a 
benevolent  disposition  was  a  great  blessing,  and  fell 
asleep  over  the  fire. 

Can  only  made  two  things.  When  she  had  helped 
to  carry  the  child's  basket,  she  kindly  made  her  sick 
mother's  bed,  and  then  she  went  home  and  made  a 
pudding. 

114 


THE    SUSPICIOUS    JACKDAW. 

r  \  ^HERE  never  was  a  more  suspicious  mortal  in 
J-  this  world  than  old  Madam  Mortimer,  unless  it 
was  Madam  Mortimer's  Jackdaw.  To  see  him  peep 
about,  and  turn  his  head  on  one  side  as  if  to  listen, 
and  go  and  stand  on  the  edge  of  her  desk  with  his 
bright  eye  fixed  on  her  letters,  and  then  flutter  to  her 
wardrobe,  and  peer  behind  her  cabinets,  as  if  he  sus- 
pected that  in  cracks  and  crevices,  under  tables  and 
behind  screens,  there  must  be  other  daws  hidden,  who 
would  interfere  with  his  particular  interests,  or  listen 
to  the  remarks  made  to  him  when  he  and  his  mis- 
tress were  alone,  or  find  the  bits  of  crust  that  he  had 
stowed  away  for  his  own  eating ;  to  see  all  this,  I  say, 
was  quite  as  good  amusement  as  to  see  old  Madam 
Mortimer  occupying  herself  in  the  same  way,  indeed 
quite  in  the  same  way,  considering  the  different  na- 
tures of  women  and  jackdaws. 

Sometimes  Madam  Mortimer  would  steal  up  softly 
to  her  door,  and  turn  the  handle  very  softly  in  her 
hand  ;  then  she  would  open  it  just  by  a  little  crack 
and  listen  till  she  must  have  had  the  ear-ache  ;  but 
generally  after  this  exercise,  she  would  return  to  her 
"5 


THE    SUSPICIOUS   JACKDAW. 

seat,  saying  aloud,  as  she  took  up  her  knitting,  '  Well, 
I  declare,  I  thought  that  was  the  butcher's  boy  talk- 
ing to  cook  ;  an  idle  young  fellow,  that  he  is  ;  brings 
all  the  gossip  of  the  village  here,  I'm  certain.  How- 
ever, this  once  I'm  wrong ;  it's  only  gardener  sitting 
outside  the  scullery,  helping  her  to  shell  peas.  He 
had  better  be  doing  that  than  doing  nothing  —  which 
is  what  most  of  his  time  is  passed  in,  I  suspect.' 

Here  the  jackdaw  would  give  a  little  croak,  to  ex- 
press his  approval  of  the  sentiment ;  whenever  his 
mistress  finished  a  speech,  he  made  a  point  of  either 
croaking  or  coughing,  just  like  a  human  being.  The 
foot-boy  had  taught  him  this  accomplishment,  and  his 
mistress  could  never  help  laughing  when  she  heard 
him  cough.  No  more  could  little  Patience  Grey,  who 
was  Madam  Mortimer's  maid.  She  was  very  young, 
only  fourteen,  but  then  Madam  Mortimer  suspected 
that  if  she  had  an  older  maid  she  should  have  more 
trouble  in  keeping  her  in  order ;  so  she  took  Patience 
from  school  to  wait  on  her,  and  Patience  was  verv 
happy  in  the  great  old  silent  house,  with  its  long 
oaken  galleries ;  and  as  there  really  seemed  to  be 
nothing  about  her  for  either  Madam  Mortimer's  or 
the  jackdaw's  suspicion  to  rest  upon,  she  was  very 
seldom  scolded,  though  sometimes  when  she  came 
into  the  parlor,  looking  rather  hot  and  breathing 
quickly,  her  mistress  would  alarm  her  by  saying, 
'  Patience,  you've  been  skipping  in  the  yard.  You 
need  not  deny  it,  for  I  know  you  have.' 

Here  Patience  would  answer,  blushing,  — '  I  just 
skipped  for  a  few  minutes,  ma'am,  after  I  had  done 
plaiting  your  frills.'  '  Ah,  you'll  "never  be  a  woman,' 
n6 


THE    SUSPICIOUS   JACKDAW. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  would  answer,  '  never !  if  you  live  to 
be  a  hundred.'  And  it  did  not  enter  into  the  head  of 
little  Patience  that  her  mistress  could  see  everything 
that  was  done  in  the  yard,  and  how  she  sometimes  ran 
and  played  with  the  house  dog  under  the  walnut-trees, 
the  two  old  walnut-trees  that  grew  there  ;  and  how 
she  played  at  ball  in  the  coach-house,  when  she  had 
finished  all  her  needlework,  while  the  little  dog,  and 
the  big  dog,  and  the  big  dog's  two  puppies,  sat  watch- 
ing at  the  open  door,  ready  to  rush  in  and  seize  the 
ball  if  she  let  it  drop.  It  never  entered  into  her  giddy 
head  that  her  mistress  could  see  all  this,  for  her  mis- 
tress sat  in  a  large  upper  parlor,  and  through  one  of 
its  windows  overlooked  the  yard ;  the  blind  was  al- 
ways drawn  down,  and  how  could  Patience  suppose 
that  her  mistress  could  peep  through  a  tiny  hole  in  it, 
and  that  she  did  this  continually,  so  that  not  a  postman 
could  politely  offer  an  orange  to  the  housemaid,  nor 
she  in  return  reward  him  with  a  mug  of  beer,  without 
being  seen  by  the  keen  eyes  of  Madame  Mortimer ! 

Patience,  on  the  whole,  however,  fared  none  the 
worse  for  being  watched  —  quite  the  contrary ;  the 
more  the  jackdaw  and  his  mistress  watched  her,  the 
fonder  they  grew.  She  was  such  a  guileless  little  maid, 
that  they  liked  to  have  her  in  the  large  old  parlor  with 
them,  helping  Madam  Mortimer  with  her  needlework, 
and  letting  the  jackdaw  peep  into  her  work-box.  One 
day,  when  Patience  was  sent  for  to  attend  her  mistress, 
she  found  her  with  the  contents  of  an  old  cabinet  spread 
open  before  her ;  there  were  corals  with  silver  bells, 
there  were  old  silver  brooches,  and  there  were  many 
rings  and  necklaces,  arid  old-fashioned  ornaments  that 
117 


THE    SUSPICIOUS   JACKDAW. 

Patience  thought  extremely  handsome  ;  in  particular, 
there  was  a  cornelian  necklace,  made  of  cut  cornelians, 
which  she  considered  to  be  particularly  beautiful ;  so 
did  the  jackdaw,  for  when  Madam  Mortimer  allowed 
Patience  to  wash  this  necklace  in  some  warm  water, 
he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  basin  pecking  at  it  play- 
fully, as  if  he  wanted  to  get  it  from  her.  Patience 
would  not  let  him  have  it,  and  when  she  had  care- 
fully dried  it  she  laid  it  on  some  clean  cotton  wool, 
and  said  to  the  jackdaw,  '  You  are  not  going  to  have 
it,  Jack.  It's  the  most  beautiful  thing  that  mistress 
has  got,  so  I  reckon  she'll  never  let  you  touch  it.' 

When  Madam  Mortimer  heard  this,  she  smiled 
covertly  at  the  ignorance  of  Patience,  and  presently 
said  to  her,  '  Child,  you  may  go  down  and  ask  for  a 
piece  of  leather  and  some  rouge  powder,  and  I  will 
show  you  how  to  clean  this  set  of  emeralds.' 

So  Patience  ran  clown  to  the  footboy,  and  got  what 
she  required,  and  very  happy  she  was  under  her  mis- 
tress's directions  in  polishing  and  cleaning  the  jewels 
—  quite  as  happy  as  she  could  have  felt  if  they  had 
been  her  own ;  yet,  when  Madam  Mortimer  said  to 
her,  '  Which  do  you  think  the  handsomest  now, 
Patience ;  the  green  stones  or  the  red  ones  ? '  she  re- 
plied, '  O,  the  red  ones  are  the  handsomest,  ma'am,  by 
a  deal.' 

Just  at  this  moment  visitors  were  announced,  and 
Madam  Mortimer  retired  to  her  own  room  previous  to 
seeing  them,  taking  Patience  with  her  to  attend  on 
her,  and  see  to  the  set  of  her  lace  shawl,  and  of  a  new 
cap  that  she  donned  for  the  occasion.  She  turned  the 
key  of  the  parlor  where  all  her  jewelry  lay  about, 
118 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

and  the  jackdaw,  as  he  hopped  with  her  out  of  the 
room,  coughed  approvingly  of  the  deed,  in  a  manner 
as  expressive  as  if  he  had  said,  '  Who  knows  whether 
all  the  people  about  us  are  honest?' 

The  old  lady  put  the  key  into  her  basket,  but,  strange 
to  say,  she  forgot  her  basket,  and  left  that  in  her  bed- 
room with  Patience,  while  she  went  down  to  receive 
her  visitors ;  and  all  that  evening,  suspicious  as  she 
generally  was,  she  never  once  remembered  that  any 
one  could  unlock  the  parlor-door  by  means  of  this 
basket ;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  in  very  good  spirits, 
and  she  and  her  elder  visitor  talked  nearly  all  the 
evening  about  their  servants,  and  about  what  a  trouble 
servants  were,  while  the  younger  ladies  walked  in  the 
garden,  gathered  a  few  flowers,  and  partook  of  some 
strawberries. 

Now  Madam  Mortimer,  suspicious  though  she  was, 
had  an  exceedingly  kind  heart,  and  she  very  often 
allowed  the  housemaid  to  attend  on  her  at  night,  that 
Patience  might  go  to  bed  early,  as  befitted  her  age. 
The  visitors  staid  late,  but  at  nine  the  drawing-i'oom 
bell  was  rung,  and  orders  were  sent  out  that  Patience 
was  to  go  to  bed ;  so  as  it  was  the  full  of  the  midsum- 
mer moon,  she  stole  upstairs  without  a  candle,  and 
when  alone  in  her  little  garret  it  was  quite  light 
enough  for  her  to  examine  various  little  treasures  that 
she  kept  in  her  box.  She  was  busy  so  doing,  when 
Jack  flew  in  at  the  open  window,  and  lighted  on  her 
feet  as  she  knelt,  then  fluttered  on  to  her  shoulder,  and 
peeped  down  at  her  treasures,  and  began  to  make  a 
great  croaking  and  chattering.  Patience  thought  he 
was  more  than  usually  inquisitive  that  night,  and  I 
119 


THE    SUSPICIOUS   JACKDAW. 

am  afraid  he  somewhat  interfered  with  her  attention 
while  she  was  reading  her  chapter,  for  he  would  not 
let  her  pincushion  alone,  but  would  persist  in  pulling 
out  the  pins,  and  dropping  them  on  to  the  floor,  listen- 
ing with  his  head  on  one  side  to  the  slight  noise  they 
made  when  they  fell.  At  last  he  flew  out  at  the  win- 
dow. And  what  did  he  do  next? 

Why,  he  did  not  go  to  roost,  as  he  would  have  done 
if  he  had  not  been  for  so  many  years  accustomed  to 
civilized  society,  but  he  flew  once  or  twice  round  the 
house  to  see  that  other  birds  were  asleep,  and  not 
likely  to  watch  his  movements,  and  then  he  peeped 
down  the  chimneys,  where  the  swallows,  now  rearing 
their  second  broods,  sat  fast  asleep  on  the  nest ;  he 
next  alighted  on  the  roof,  and  walked  cautiously  to  a 
certain  crevice,  where  he  kept  a  few  dozens  of  nails, 
that  he  had  picked  with  his  beak  out  of  the  carpet, 
and  a  good  many  odds  and  ends  of  ribbon,  bits  of 
worsted,  farthings,  and  broken  morsels  of  crockery, 
that  he  valued  highly  ;  these  he  pulled  out  of  the  crev- 
ice, and  then  he  poked  his  property  with  his  beak, 
chattered  to  it  in  a  very  senseless  way,  walked  over  it, 
and  finally  deposited  it  again  in  the  crevice,  flew  down 
to  the  side  of  the  house,  and  entered  the  parlor  where 
his  mistress's  jewelry  lay. 

Here  lay  the  necklace  —  it  looked  very  pretty  —  the 
jackdaw  alighted  on  the  table,  pecked  it  as  thinking 
that  it  might  be  good  to  eat,  then  lifted  it  up  and 
shook  it.  At  last  he  flew  with  it  out  of  the  window. 

It  was  still  quite  light  out  of  doors,  and  as  the  neck- 
lace dangled  from  his  beak,  he  admired  it  very  much. 
'  But  what  did  he  want  with  it?  '  you  will  naturally  ask. 

1 20 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

Nobody  knows,  but  this  is  ascertained  —  that,  finding 
it  heavy,  he  took  it,  not  to  the  roof,  but  to  the  edge  of 
a  deep  well  in  the  garden,  wherein  he  had  deposited 
the  cook's  brass  thimble,  and  several  of  her  skewers  ; 
having  reached  this  well,  and  lighted  on  the  stone 
brink,  he  peered  down  into  it,  and  saw  his  own  image, 
and  the  red  necklace  in  his  beak  ;  he  also  saw  four  or 
five  little  stars  reflected  there,  and  as  it  was  his  bed- 
time, he  dozed  a  little  on  the  edge  of  the  well,  while 
the  evening  air  waved  slightly  the  long  leaves  of  the 
ferns  that  hung  over  it,  and  grew  in  the  joints  of  the 
stone  many  feet  down. 

At  last,  it  is  supposed  that  some  such  thought  as  this 
crossed  his  brain  :  '  These  berries  are  heavy,  and  not 
good  to  eat ;  I  had  better  lay  them  on  the  water  till 
to-morrow  morning.' 

So  he  let  them  drop,  and  down  they  fell  to  the  bot- 
tom. He  had  dropped  a  good  many  articles  before 
this  into  the  well ;  some,  such  as  nuts,  feathers,  and 
bits  of  stick  and  straw,  floated ;  others,  like  this  neck- 
lace, had  sunk.  It  was  all  chance  which  happened, 
but  he  liked  to  hear  the  splash  of  the  red  necklace, 
and  he  stood  awhile  chattering  to  himself,  with  great 
serenity  of  mind,  on  the  occasion  of  its  disappearing ; 
then  he  went  and  pecked  at  the  kitchen  window,  de- 
manding his  supper. 

This  is  what  the  jackdaw  did ;  and  now  what  did 
the  mistress  do,  when  she  walked  to  the  parlor  door 
the  next  morning,  unlocked  it,  and  found  that  the  red 
necklace  was  gone? 

She  was  quite  amazed  —  nobody  but  Patience  could 
have  taken  it— -  little  Patience,  her  good  little  maid, 

6  131 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

who  had  seemed  so  guileless,  so  conscientious,  and  so 
honest.  O,  what  a  sad  thing  it  was  that  there  was 
nobody  in  the  world  that  she  could  trust !  Patience 
must  have  taken  the  key,  and  after  using  it  for  this  bad 
purpose,  must  have  placed  it  again  in  the  basket. 

But  Madam  Mortimer  was  so  sorry  to  think  of  this, 
that  she  decided  to  let  Patience  have  a  little  time  to 
reflect  upon  her  great  fault  and  confess  it.  So  she 
said  nothing  to  her  all  the  morning,  and  in  the  after- 
noon, peeping  through  her  little  hole  in  the  blind,  she 
saw  Patience  chasing  the  ducks  into  the  pond,  and 
laughing  heartily  to  see  them  plunge.  '  Hardened 
child,'  said  her  mistress,  '  how  can  she  laugh?  —  I'll 
give  her  warning  ; '  and  thereupon  she  sat  down  in  her 
easy  chair  and  began  to  cry.  Now,  she  felt,  almost 
for  the  first  time,  what  a  sad  thing  it  is  to  suspect  a 
person  whom  one  really  loves.  She  had  not  supposed 
how  much  she  cared  for  this  little  village  girl  till  she 
was  obliged  to  suspect  her.  She  had  not  perceived 
how  sad  her  constant  habit  of  suspicion  was,  and  how 
it  had  now  obtained  such  a  dominion  over  her,  till 
everything  done  by  a  suspected  person  appeared  to 
her  mind  in  a  distorted  light.  Now  the  childish  sim- 
plicity of  Patience  seemed  to  her  to  be  hardened 
guilt.  Now,  when  she  saw  her  at  play,  she  made  up 
her  mind  that  the  little  girl  knew  she  was  overlooked, 
and  was  playing  about  in  order  to  make  her  mistress 
think  she  was  at  ease,  and  had  nothing  weighing  on 
her  spirits ;  and  when  she  came  into  the  parlor,  if  she 
was  awkward,  her  mistress  attributed  it  to  guilty  fears  ; 
and  if  she  made  any  mistake  about  a  message,  it  was 


122 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

because  her  thoughts  were  pre-occupied  with  her  ill- 
gotten  trinket. 

This  unhappy  state  of  things  went  on  for  several 
days.  At  last,  one  evening,  Madam  Mortimer  hap- 
pening to  look  out  at  her  hole  in  the  blind,  saw 
Patience  slowly  walking  across  the  yard,  and  cau- 
tiously looking  down  into  her  apron,  which  she  had 
gathered  up  into  her  hands.  Madam  Mortimer  felt 
convinced  that  the  poor  child  had  got  the  necklace 
concealed  there.  One  of  the  housemaids  came  up, 
but  Patience  ran  away,  and  \vould  not  let  her  see  what 
she  had  got,  and  seemed  so  anxious  to  conceal  it,  that 
her  mistress  drew  up  the  blind,  opened  the  window, 
and  said,  in  an  awful  voice,  '  Patience,  come  here  ! ' 
The  little  girl  approached  —  there  was  a  veranda 
outside  the  window,  and  some  wooden  steps  led  up  to 
it.  '  Come  up  to  me,'  said  her  mistress.  The  little 
girl  said,  '  Yes,  ma'am  ; '  and  still  holding  her  apron, 
turned  to  enter  the  door.  '  No,'  exclaimed  her  mis- 
tress ;  '  come  up  these  steps ;  I  do  not  want  to  lose 
sight  of  you.'  Patience  obeyed.  Her  mistress  sat 
down,  and  the  little  maid  stood  opposite  to  her. 

'  Patience,'  said  her  mistress,  '  I  have  lost  my  red 
necklace.'  The  little  girl  glanced  under  the  table,  as 
if  she  thought  the  necklace  might  have  dropped  there. 

'  Do  you  know  where  it  is,  Patience  ? '  was  the  next 
question,  asked  with  great  solemnity.  Patience  tight- 
ened the  folds  of  her  apron,  looked  earnestly  at  her 
mistress,  and  said,  '  No,  ma'am.' 

'  Poor  child,'  replied  Madam  Mortimer  shaking  her 
head  ;  and  Patience,  not  appearing  to  know  what  she 
meant,  colored  exceedingly,  and  looked  as  if  she  was 
123 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

going  to  cry.  But  at  last,  as  her  mistress  sat  in  her 
chair,  and  did  not  say  another  word,  she  began  to 
steal  away  till  she  was  arrested  by  her  mistress's 
voice. 

4  Come  back  again,  you  poor  misguided  child  — 
come  back,  and  show  me  what  you  have  got  in  your 
apron.'  As  Madame  Mortimer  spoke  she  started,  for 
the  evening  was  growing  dusk,  and  when  Patience 
turned,  a  light,  a  decided  light,  gleamed  through  her 
white  apron. 

'  Please,  ma'am,'  she  said,  now  holding  it  open,  '  it's 
some  glow-worms  that  old  gardener  gave  me  —  three 
glow-worms,  and  some  leaves  that  I  got  for  them.' 

4  Bless  me  ! '  exclaimed  Madam  Mortimer,  when  she 
saw  the  shining  insects  slowly  moving  about  on  her 
little  maid's  apron  ;  but  she  looked  so  much  less  angry 
than  before,  that  Patience,  by  way  of  peace-offering, 
took  up  one  of  her  treasures,  and  placed  it,  with  some 
leaves,  upon  the  open  page  of  her  mistress's  great 
Bible,  which  lay  on  a  little  table  by  her  side. 

'  You  may  go,  now,  Patience,'  said  her  mistress, 
quite  calmly,  and  the  little  girl  left  the  room,  while 
her  mistress  sat  so  long,  lost  in  thought,  that  it  grew 
quite  dusk.  4  After  all,'  she  thought,  '  that  poor  child 
must  have  been  the  thief;  nobody  else  could  have 
stolen  the  necklace ;  but  I  will  still  give  her  time  to 
confess  and  restore  it.'  As  she  said  this  she  turned 
towards  the  Bible,  and  the  glow-worm  on  the  page 
was  slowly  moving  along  it ;  the  darkness  hid  every 
other  word,  but  she  read  by  the  light  of  her  little 
maid's  gift,  as  it  went  on,  this  verse  :  '  We  —  do  — 
all  —  fade  —  as  —  doth  —  a  —  leaf.' 

124 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

'  Too  true,'  said  the  poor  old  lady,  sighing,  '  I  feel 
the  coming  on  of  old  age  very  fast,  and  I  could  have 
wished  to  have  somebody  about  me,  however  young, 
that  I  could  trust.  Ah,  we  are  frail  creatures  —  we 
come  up  and  die  down  like  the  summer  grass  ;  and  we 
are  as  sinful  as  we  are  frail.  My.  poor  little  Patience ! 
I  will  try  her  a  little  longer.'  So  saying,  the  mistress 
began  to  doze,  and  the  jackdaw  hopped  down  from 
the  perch  where  he  had  been  wratching  her,  and  when 
he  saw  that  she  was  fast  asleep,  and  that  the  yellow 
moonlight  \vas  soft  upon  her  aged  features,  he  alighted 
on  the  page  of  the  Bible  which  the  shining  glow- 
worm was  then  illuminating,  and  pounced  upon  him 
and  ate  him  up. 

Little  Patience  carried  her  glow-worms  upstairs, 
and  amused  herself  with  them  a  long  time  ;  for  she 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy  herself  when  her  daily 
task  of  needlework  was  done  ;  and  as  her  mistress 
never  set  her  more  to  accomplish  than  she  could  finish 
before  dusk,  she  often  had  a  good  game  at  play  with  a 
clear  conscience.  That  night,  however,  she  was  not 
in  such  good  spirits  as  usual,  because  her  mistress  had 
been  angry  -with  her,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
glow-worms  she  would  have  felt  very  dull  indeed. 

However,  she  hung  them  up  in  a  gauze  bag  that  she 
had  made  for  them,  and  long  after  she  was  in  bed  she 
lay  looking  at  them,  but  thought  they  grew  brighter 
and  brighter.  She  fell  fast  asleep  at  last,  and  fast 
asleep  she  was  when  her  mistress  came  into  the  room 
with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  and  softly  stole  up  to  her 
bedside. 

125 


THE    SUSPICIOUS   JACKDAW. 

Patience  looked  very  happy  and  peaceful  in  her 
sleep,  and  the  suspicious  old  lady  could  find  noth- 
ing lying  about  to  excite  her  doubts.  The  child 
had  left  her  box  open,  and  Madam  Mortimer,  though 
she  did  not  choose  to  touch  or  move  anything  in  it, 
used  her  eyes  very  sharply,  and  scrutinized  its  con- 
tents with  astonishing  deliberation.  At  length  Pa- 
tience moved,  and  Madam  Mortimer,  shading  her 
candle,  stole  away  again,  feeling  that  she  had  done 
something  to  be  ashamed  of. 

The  next  morning  she  sent  for  Patience,  and  said  to 
her,  '  Patience,  I  told  you  that  I  had  lost  my  red  neck- 
lace ;  I  must  have  you  to  help  me  to  search  for  it ;  but 
first  tell  me  whether  you  know  where  it  is  ? ' 

'  I  know  where  I  think  it  is,  ma'am,'  Patience  an- 
swered quite  simply. 

'  Where  ? '  asked  her  mistress ;  but  she  spoke  and 
looked  so  severely  that  Patience  hung  her  head  and 
faltered,  and  at  last  said,  '  She  didn't  know,  she  only 
thought  it  might  be  ; '  and  when  pressed  for  an  answer, 
she  said,  '  She  thought  it  might  be  in  the  empty  side 
of  the  tea-caddy,  for  Jack  often  took  things  and  put 
them  into  it.'  While  the  little  girl  spoke  she  looked 
so  bashful  and  confused,  that  her  mistress  was  con- 
firmed in  her  bad  opinion  of  her ;  but  she  allowed  her 
to  help  all  the  morning  in  searching  for  the  lost  neck- 
lace ;  '  for,  after  all,'  she  thought,  '  I  may  be  mistaken.' 

However,  the  necklace  was  not  to  be  found  ;  and 
though  the  jackdaw  chattered  and  bustled  about  a 
great  deal,  and  told  over  and  over  again,  in  the  jack- 
daw's language,  what  he  had  done  with  it,  nobody 
took  the  slightest  notice  of  him  ;  and  the  longer  she 

126 


THE    SUSPICIOUS   JACKDAW. 

searched,  the  more  unhappy  Madam  Mortimer  be- 
came. '  It  is  not  the  value  of  the  necklace,'  she  often 
said  to  herself;  '  but  it  is  the  being  obliged  to  suspect 
this  child,  that  I  am  so  sorry  for ;  for  she  was  the  only 
person  in  the  wide  world  that  I  felt  I  could  trust,  ex- 
cepting my  own  children.' 

But  if  people  trust  only  one  person,  and  can  make 
up  their  minds  to  be  distrustful  of  every  one  else,  their 
suspicions  are  almost  sure  at  last  to  reach  the  one  re- 
maining ;  and  so  Madam  Mortimer  had  now  found. 

She  sent  for  the  little  maid's  mother,  and  without 
finding  fault  with  the  child,  said  to  her  that  she  did 
not  require  her  services  any  longer  ;  and  when  the 
mother  said,  '  I  hope  it  is  for  no  fault  that  you  part 
with  her,  ma'am  ? '  she  replied,  evasively,  '  Patience 
has  her  faults  like  other  people ; '  and  with  that  an- 
swer the  mother  was  obliged  to  be  satisfied. 

When  Patience  was  gone  her  mistress  felt  very  un- 
happy. She  had  felt  a  pleasure  in  her  company,  be- 
cause she  was  such  a  child,  and  so  guileless.  She 
had  meant  to  keep  her  with  her,  and  teach  her  so  long 
as  she  lived,  and  trust  her ;  but  now  all  this  was  over, 
and  she  had  nobody  whom  she  chose  to  trust.  The 
jackdaw,  too,  appeared  to  feel  dull ;  there  was  no- 
body to  play  with  him  and  carry  him  on  her  shoul- 
der. He  was  dull,  too,  because  he  had  lost  that  pretty 
necklace,  for  he  often  thought  he  should  like  to  have 
it  again  to  put  among  his  treasures  on  the  roof;  there- 
fore, he  was  fond  of  flying  to  the  edge  of  the  well,  and 
gabbling  there  with  great  volubility  ;  but  I  need  not 
say  that  his  chatter  and  his  regret  did  not  make  the 
necklace  float. 

127 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

After  a  time,  however,  he  found  something  else  to 
amuse  him,  for  one  of  Madam  Mortimer's  sons  and 
his  little  boy  came  to  visit  her,  and  the  jackdaw  de- 
lighted in  teasing  the  little  fellow,  and  pecking  his 
heels,  and  stealing  his  bits  of  string,  and  hiding  his 
pencils ;  while  the  boy,  on  the  other  hand,  was  con- 
stantly teasing  the  bird,  stroking  his  feathers  the 
wrong  way,  snatching  away  his  crusts,  and  otherwise 
plaguing  him. 

'  I  wish  Patience  was  here  to  play  with  that  child, 
and  keep  him  from  teasing  my  Jack,'  said  the  old  lady, 
fretfully.  '  I  get  so  infirm'  that  children  are  a  trouble 
to  me.' 

'  Who  is  Patience  ? '  asked  her  son. 

So  then  Madam  Mortimer  told  him  the  whole 
story  ;  the  boy  and  the  jackdaw  having  previously 
gone  out  of  the  room  together  —  the  boy  tantalizing 
him,  and  the  bird  gabbling  and  pecking  at  his  ankles. 
When  she  had  finished,  her  son  said,  '  Mother,  I  be- 
lieve this  will  end  in  your  suspecting  me  next !  Why 
did  you  not  ascertain  whether  the  girl  was  innocent  or 
guilty  before  you  parted  with  her?' 

'  I  feel  certain  she  is  guilty,'  answered  the  mother, 
'  and  I  never  mean  to  trust  any  servant  again.' 

'But  if  you  could  be  certain  she  was  innocent?' 
asked  the  son. 

'  Why,  then  I  would  never  suspect  a  sen-ant  again, 
I  think,'  she  replied.  '  Certainly  I  should  never  sus- 
pect her  —  she  seemed  as  open  as  the  day  —  and  you 
do  not  know,  son,  what  a  painful  thing  it  is  to  have 
nobody  about  me  that  I  can  trust.' 

'  Excuse  me,  mother,'  replied  the  son,  '  you  mean 
128 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

nobody  that  you  do  trust ;  for  all  your  servants  have 
been  with  you  for  years,  and  deserve  to  be  trusted,  as 
far  as  we  can  see.' 

'  Well,  well,'  said  the  mother,  '  it  makes  me  un- 
happy enough,  I  assure  you,  to  be  obliged  to  suspect 
everybody ;  and  if  I  could  have  that  child  back  I 
should  be  truly  glad ;  but  I  cannot  harbor  a  thief.' 

At  this  point  of  the  discourse  the  boy  and  the  jack- 
daw \vere  heard  in  the  yard  making  such  a  noise,  and 
quarrelling,  that  the  son  went  down,  at  his  mother's 
request,  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  '  He  is  a  thief,' 
said  the  boy ;  '  I  saw  him  fly  to  the  roof  with  a  long 
bit  of  blue  ribbon  that  belongs  to  cook.' 

The  jackdaw  gabbled  angrily  in  reply,  and  it  is 
highly  probable  that  he  understood  part  of  the  accusa- 
tion, for  he  ruffled  his  feathers,  and  hopped  about  in  a 
very  .excited  way  ;  and  as  the  boy  kept  pointing  at 
him,  jeering  him,  the  bird  at  last  flew  at  him  angrily, 
and  gave  him  a  very  severe  peck  with  a  loud  croak, 
that  might  have  been  meant  to  express,  '  Take-  that.' 

Having  it  on  his  hands  to  make  up  this  quarrel,  the 
little  boy's  father  could  not  go  on  with  the  discourse 
he  had  begun  with  his  mother  at  that  time  ;  but  when 
he  found  another  opportunity  he  said  a  great  deal  to 
her ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  that  the  jackdaw's  suspi- 
cions being  aroused,  that  troublesome  bird  would  insist 
on  listening  to  all  he  said,  with  his  head  on  one  side, 
and  his  twinkling  eye  fixed  on  his  face,  —  and  if  he 
would  have  been  quiet,  instead  of  incessantly  chan- 
ging his  place,  as  if  he  thought  he  could  hear  better  on 
the  right  arm  of  the  chair  than  the  left,  it  is  possible 
that  the  gentleman's  discourse  might  have  had  a  great 
6*  129 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKI/AW. 

effect  on  the  old  lady's  mind  ;  as  it  was,  he  interrupted 
his  mistress's  attention  so  much,  that  it  is  doubtful 
whether  she  remembered  what  her  son  had  been  talk- 
ing of.  And  there  was  no  sooner  a  pause  in  what  the 
jackdaw  probably  regarded  as  a  disagreeable  subject, 
than  he  hopped  to  a  private  little  cupboard  that  he 
kept  under  the  turned-up  edge  of  the  carpet,  and 
bringing  out  five  or  six  mouldy  bits  of  bread,  laid 
them  in  a  row  on  the  rug  before  his  mistress  and  her 
son,  and  walking  about  before  them  with  an  air  of  re- 
flection, seemed  as  if  he  would  have  said,  '  I  must 
attend  to  my  business,  whether  people  talk  or  not.' 

'  I  never  saw  such  a  queer  fellow  in  my  life  as  that 
bird  is  ! '  exclaimed  the  son. 

'  Why,  Jack,  you  miser  ! '  said  his  mistress  ;  '  one 
would  think  you  were  starved.' 

The  jackdaw  gabbled  something  which  was  no 
doubt  meant  for  impertinence,  till  hearing  footsteps 
outside  the  door,  he  hastily  snatched  up  some  of  his 
mouldy  property  and  flew  with  it  to  the  top  of  the 
cabinet ;  then  he  stood  staring  at  the  remainder,  flut- 
tering his  wings,  and  making  a  great  outcry,  for  he 
did  not  dare  to  fly  down  for  it,  because  his  little  tor- 
mentor had  just  rushed  into  the  room. 

'  Papa,  papa  ! '  exclaimed  the  boy. 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  Jack,'  cried  the  grandmother ; 
'  one  at  a  time  is  enough.' 

'  Come,  I  will  take  you  on  my  knee,'  said  his  father, 
'  and  then  the  daw  will  fly  down  for  his  bread.' 

The  daw  no  sooner  saw  his  little  enemy  in  a  place 
of  safety  than  he  descended,  snatched  up  his  bread, 

130 


THE    SUSPICIOUS   JACKDAW. 

and  having  secured  it  all,  came  again  to  give  the  boy 
a  malicious  little  peck. 

'  Now  what  do  you  want  to  say  ? '  asked  his  father. 

'  Papa,'  repeated  the  boy,  '  do  currants  ever  grow 
under  \vater  ? ' 

'  No,'  said  his  father. 

1  But,'  replied  the  boy,  '  there  is  something  growing 
in  the  well,  just  under  water,  that  looks  like  currants  ; 
and,  papa,  will  you  get  it  for  me,  please,  for  I  should 
like  to  have  it  if  it  is  good  to  eat.' 

'  Pooh  ! '  said  his  grandmother  ; '  the  boy  is  dreaming.' 

But  the  boy  made  such  a  fuss  about  the  bunch  of 
currants,  and  was  so  positive  as  to  their  growing  down 
in  the  well,  that  though  it  was  now  autumn,  and  the 
leaves  were  falling,  and  all  the  currants  were  either 
eaten  up  or  stowed  away  in  jam  pots  long  before,  his 
father  and  grandmother  allowed  him  to  take  them  to 
the  well ;  but  first  the  latter  put  on  her  black  silk 
bonnet  and  her  cloak,  and  fetched  her  stick  from  its 
place,  lamenting  all  the  while  that  Patience  was  not 
there  to  do  all  her  little  errands  for  her. 

Now  the  weather  all  that  summer  and  autumn  had 
been  remarkably  dry,  and  the  consequence  was,  that 
this  old  well,  which  had  long  been  disused  because  it 
contained  so  little  water,  had  now  less  than  ever ;  but 
that  little  was  clear ;  though  when  the  old  lady  and 
her  son  looked  over  the  edge  they  could  not  at  first 
see  down  into  it,  because  a  few  drops  of  rain  had 
fallen,  and  had  wetted  the  fern  leaves  which  were  still 
dripping  a  little  and  covering  its  surface  with  dimples. 

'  There  are  no  red  currants  here,  nor  plums  either, 
my  child,'  said  the  grandmother ;  and  as  she  spoke 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

she  put  down  her  gold-headed  stick  and  shook  the  tuft 
of  ferns  that  had  been  dripping,  till  she  had  shaken 
down  all  the  water  they  contained. 

The  surface  was  now  covered  with  little  eddies  and 
dimples.  But  when  the  water  grew  smooth  again, 
'  There  they  are  ! '  exclaimed  the  boy  ;  '  there  are  the 
currants.  Look,  grandmother,  they  lie  just  under 
the  shadow  of  those  long  leaves.' 

'  I  see  something,'  replied  his  grandmother,  shading 
her  eyes  ;  '  but  it  is  six  times  as  long  as  a  bunch  of 
currants,  and  the  berries  are  three  times  as  large.  I 
shouldn't  wonder,  son,  if  that  was  my  cornelian  neck- 
lace.' 

'  I  will  see  if  we  can  ascertain,'  said  her  son ; 
0  fhere  are  several  ladders  about  the  premises,  and 
the  well  is  not  at  all  deep.'  So  off  he  went,  leaving 
the  old  lady  and  her  grandson  to  look  at  the  necklace  ; 
but  the  jackdaw,  having  by  this  time  missed  his  mis- 
tress from  her  accustomed  haunts,  and  being  suspi- 
cious lest  she  might  be  inspecting  some  of  his  hoards, 
had  set  a  search  on  foot  for  her,  and  now  flew  up 
screaming  and  making  a  great  outcry,  as  if  he  thought 
he  was  going  to  be  robbed.  However,  having  lighted 
on  the  edge  of  the  well,  and  observed  that  the  neck- 
lace was  there  all  safe,  he  felt  more  at  his  ease ;  and, 
if  his  mistress  could  have  understood  the  tongue  of  a 
daw,  she  would  have  now  heard  him  relate  how  he 
threw  it  there  ;  as  it  was,  she  only  heard  him  gabble, 
and  saw  him  now  and  then  peck  at  the  boy's  pinafore. 
When  the  jackdaw  saw  a  ladder  brought,  however, 
his  mind  misgave  him  that  his  mktress  meant  to  get 
J33 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

the  necklace  out  again ;  and  his  thievish  spirit  sank 
very  low.  However,  being  a  politic  bird,  he  was 
quite  silent  while  the  ladder  was  lowered,  and  while 
the  gardener's  boy  descended  to  the  bottom  of  the 
well  and  groped  about  with  his  hands,  for  there  was 
not  a  foot  of  water.  '  There  is  my  necklace,  sure 
enough,'  exclaimed  the  old  lady  as  the  boy  lifted  up 
the  long  row  of  shining  beads  ;  '  bring  it  out,  James.' 
'  Please,  ma'am,  here's  the  great  silver  skewer  that 
was  lost  a  year  ago,'  exclaimed  the  boy ;  '  and,  dear 
me,  here's  the  nozzle  of  a  candlestick.' 

The  old  lady  held  up  her  hands ;  she  had  parted 
with  a  good  cook,  in  consequence  of  the  loss  of  this 
skewer.  But  the  sight  of  the  necklace  dangling  from 
the  youth's  hand  as  he  prepared  to  mount  the  ladder 
was  too  much  for  the  jackdaw  —  he  suddenly  flew 
down,  gave  the  hand  a  tremendous  peck  with  his  hard 
bill,  and  while  the  boy  cried  out  and  dropped  the 
necklace,  the  bird  made  a  sudden  dart  at  it,  snatched 
it  before  it  touched  the  water,  and  flew  up  with  it 
into  a  tree.  There  he  rested  a  few  minutes  playing 
with  the  wet  necklace,  and  shaking  it  in  the  sunlight ; 
but  not  all  his  mistress's  entreaties  and  coaxing  could 
bring  him  down,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  flew  oft' 
again  and  settled  on  the  roof  of  the  house. 

There,  in  less  than  ten  minutes,  he  was  found  by 
his  mistress  and  her  son,  with  all  his  ill-gotten  gains 
spread  out  before  him  ;  everything  was  taken  from 
him,  and  when  his  mistress  saw  the  articles  whose 
loss  had  caused  her  to  suspect  almost  every  one  about 
her  of  theft,  she  was  so  vexed  that  she  actually  shed 
133 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

tears.  '  Mother,'  said  her  son,  '  it  appears  to  me  that 
you  have  trusted  the  only  creature  about  you  that  was 
utterly  unworthy  of  trust ! ' 

The  old  lady  was  so  much  disheartened  that  she 
could  not  say  a  word ;  but  such  is  the  audacity  of  a 
jackdaw's  nature,  that  not  half  an  hour  after  this, 
when  the  foot-boy  brought  in  the  tea  things,  Jack 
walked  in  after  him  with  a  grave  expression  of  coun- 
tenance and  hopped  on  to  the  tea  table  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

'  Patience  shall  come  back  again,'  thought  the  old 
lady ;  '  I'll  send  for  her  and  her  mother,  and  I'll  never 
suspect  her  any  more.  It  is  plain  enough  now  that 
Jack  must  haye  thrown  my  property  down  there.' 

So  the  mother  of  Patience  was  sent  for ;  but,  alas, 
what  disappointments  people  are  doomed  to  !  The 
mother  expressed  herself  much  obliged  to  Madam 
Mortimer,  but  said,  that  her  cousin,  in  London,  hear- 
ing that  she  was  out  of  place,  had  sent  for  her  to  serve 
in  her  shop.  '  And  that  I  look  on  as  a  great  rise  in  life 
for  her,'  said  the  mother,  with  an  air  of  satisfaction  : 
'  and  I  am  going  to  send  a  box  of  clothes  to  her  next 
week,'  she  continued,  '  and  I  shall  tell  her,  ma'am, 
that  you  have  not  forgotten  her.' 

Madam  Mortimer  was  very  much  vexed ;  but  the 
necklace  was  in  her  hand,  and  a  sudden  thought 
struck  her  that  she  would  give  it  to  Patience.  So 
she  said,  with  a  sigh,  '  Well,  Mrs.  Grey,  when  you 
send  the  box,  you  may  put  this  in  it.' 

Her  mother  at  first  looked  pleased,  but  she  pres- 
ently drew  back,  and  said,  '  Thank  you,  kindly, 

134 


THE    SUSPICIOUS  JACKDAW. 

ma'am,  but  that  necklace  is  by  far  too  fine  for  my 
Patience,  and  it  might  do  her  harm  to  have  it,  and  I 
never  encourage  her  to  wish  for  fine  clothes.' 

'  Good  evening,  then,'  said  Madam  Mortimer ;  and 
as  the  woman  went  away,  she  walked  softly  to  the 
hole  in  the  blind,  and  watched  her  talking  and  laugh- 
ing with  the  cook,  rather,  as  it  seemed,  in  a  triumphant 
way,  as  if  she  was  exulting  in  the  good  fortune  of  her 
child,  and  the  evident  discomfiture  of  her  former  mis- 
tress. '  It  is  entirely  the  fault  of  that  thieving  jack- 
daw,' said  the  old  lady,  as  she  returned  to  her  chair ; 
and  as  she  spoke  she  saw  the  suspicious  bird,  sitting 
listening  to  her  with  his  head  on  one  side.  '  It  is 
enough  to  make  anybody  suspicious  to  lose  things  as  I 
have  lost  them,'  she  thought.  '  However,  I  shall  soon 
leave  ofF  the  habit,  as  I  find  it  a  bad  one.  I  wonder 
whether  that  woman  is  gone  yet ;  I'll  just  take  a  peep, 
and  see  what  they  are  about,  gossiping,  down  there. 
Ah,  there  she  is  !  I  wish  I  hadn't  sent  Patience  away  ; 
but,  perhaps,  if  I  had  been  kinder  to  her  than  I  was, 
she  would  have  given  me  cause  to  suspect  her  before 
long.' 

Madam  Mortimer  then  settled  herself  in  her  chair 
and  began  to  doze.  When  she  awoke,  the  necklace 
was  gone  again ;  and  perhaps  it  is  a  proof  that  she 
really  was  somewhat  improved,  that  though  she  said, 
'  I  suspect,  Jack,  you  know  where  that  necklace  is,' 
she  never  took  any  steps  in  the  matter,  but  left  her 
glittering  stones  in  the  bird's  greedy  keeping ;  and 
after  taking  a  little  time  for  consideration,  put  a  patch 
upon  the  hole  in  the  blind,  so  that  she  could  never 
'35 


THE    SUSPICIOUS   JACKDAW. 

look  through  it  any  more.  Whether  she  was  cured 
of  her  suspicious  turn  of  mind  is  more  than  I  can  tell, 
but  it  is  certain  that  she  henceforth  looked  on  sus- 
picions as  undesirable,  and  seldom  thought  of  little 
Patience  without  a  sigh. 

136 


THE   MINNOWS  WITH  SILVER  TAILS. 


THE  MINNOWS    WITH  SILVER   TAILS. 

INHERE  was  a  cuckoo-clock  hanging  in  Tom 
-•-  Turner's  cottage.  When  it  struck  One,  Tom's 
wife  laid  the  baby  in  the  cradle,  and  took  a  saucepan 
off  the  fire,  from  which  came  a  very  savory  smell. 

Her  two  little  children,  who  had  been  playing  in 
the  open  doorway,  ran  to  the  table,  and  began  softly 
to  drum  upon  it  with  their  pewter  spoons,  looking 
eagerly  at  their  mother  as  she  turned  a  nice  little  piece 
of  pork  into  a  dish,  and  set  greens  and  potatoes  round 
it.  They  fetched  the  salt ;  then  they  set  a  chair  for 
their  father ;  brought  their  own  stools ;  and  pulled 
their  mother's  rocking-chair  close  to  the  table. 

'  Run  to  the  door,  Billy,'  said  the  mother,  '  and  see 
if  father's  coming.'  Billy  ran  to  the  door ;  and,  after 
the  fashion  of  little  children,  looked  first  the  right 
way,  and  then  the  wrong  way,  but  no  father  was  to 
be  seen. 

Presently  the  mother  followed  him,  and  shaded  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  for  the  sun  was  hot.  '  If  father 
doesn't  come  soon,'  she  observed, '  the  apple-dumpling 
will  be  too  much  done,  by  a  deal.' 

'  There  he  is  ! '  cried  the  little  boy,  '  he  is  coming 

139 


THE    MINNOWS 

round  by  the  wood ;  and  now  he's  going  over  the 
bridge.  O  father  !  make  haste,  and  have  some  apple- 
dumpling.' 

'  Tom,'  said  his  wife,  as  he  came  near,  '  art  tired  to- 
day?' 

'  Uncommon  tired,'  said  Tom,  and  he  threw  him- 
self on  the  bench,  in  the  shadow  of  the  thatch. 

'  Has  anything  gone  wrong  ? '  asked  his  wife : 
'what's  the  matter?' 

'Matter?'  repeated  Tom,  'is  anything  the  matter? 
The  matter  is  this,  mother,  that  I'm  a  miserable  hard- 
worked  slave  ; '  and  he  clapped  his  hands  upon  his 
knees,  and  muttered  in  a  deep  voice,  which  frightened 
the  children  — '  a  miserable  slave  ! ' 

'  Bless  us ! '  said  the  wife,  and  could  not  make  out 
what  he  meant. 

'  A  miserable  ill-used  slave,'  continued  Tom,  '  and 
always  have  been.' 

'Always  have  been?'  said  his  wife  ;  'why,  father,  I 
thought  thou  used  to  say,  at  the  election  time,  that  thou 
wast  a  free-born  Briton?' 

'Women  have  no  business  with  politics,'  said  Tom, 
getting  up  rather  sulkily.  And  whether  it  was  the 
force  of  habit,  or  the  smell  of  the  dinner,  that  made 
him  do  it,  has  not  been  ascertained  ;  but  it  is  certain 
that  he  walked  into  the  house,  ate  plenty  of  pork  and 
greens,  artd  then  took  a  tolerable  share  in  demolishing 
the  apple-dumpling. 

When  the  little  children  were  gone  out  to  play,  his 
wife  said  to  him, '  Tom,  I  hope  thou  and  master  haven't 
had  words  to-day  ? ' 

'  Master*  said  Tom,  '  yes,  a  pretty  master  he  has 
140 


WITH    SILVER    TAILS. 

been  ;  and  a  pretty  slave  I've  been.  Don't  talk  to  me 
of  masters.' 

'  O  Tom,  Tom,'  cried  his  wife,  '  but  he's  been  a  good 
master  to  you ;  fourteen  shillings  a  week,  regular 
wages,  —  that's  not  a  thing  to  make  a  sneer  at ;  and 
think  how  warm  the  children  are  lapped  up  o'  winter 
nights,  and  you  with  as  good  shoes  to  your  feet  as  ever 
keep  him  out  of  the  mud.' 

'  What  of  that?'  said  Tom  ;  '  isn't  my  labor  worth 
the  money?  I'm  not  beholden  to  my  employer.  He 
gets  as  good  from  me  as  he  gives.' 

'  Very  like,  Tom.  There's  not  a  man  for  miles 
round  that  can  match  you  at  a  graft ;  and  as  to  early 
peas  —  but  if  master  can't  do  without  you,  I'm  sure 
you  can't  do  without  him.  O,  dear,  to  think  that  you 
and  he  should  have  had  words  ! ' 

'  We've  had  no  words,'  said  Tom,  impatiently  ;  '  but 
I'm  sick  of  being  at  another  man's  beck  and  call.  It's 
"  Tom  do  this,"  and  "  Tom  do  that,"  and  nothing  but 
work,  work,  work,  from  Monday  morning  till  Satur- 
day night ;  and  I  was  thinking,  as  I  walked  over  to 
Squire  Morton's  to  ask  for  the  turnip  seed  for  master 
—  I  was  thinking,  Sally,  that  I  am  nothing  but  a  poor 
working  man  after  all.  In  short,  I'm  a  slave,  and  my 
spirit  won't  stand  it.' 

So  saying,  Tom  flung  himself  out  at  the  cottage 
door,  and  his  wife  thought  he  was  going  back  to  his 
work  as  usual.  But  she  was  mistaken  ;  he  walked  to 
the  wood,  and  there,  when  he  came  to  the  border  of  a 
little  tinkling  stream,  he  sat  down,  and  began  to  brood 
over  his  grievances.  It  was  a  very  hot  day. 

'  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,'  said  Tom  to  himself,  '  it's 


THE    MINNOWS 

a  great  deal  pleasanter  sitting  here  in  the  shade  than 
broiling  over  celery  trenches ;  and  then  thinning  of 
wall  fruit,  with  a  baking  sun  at  one's  back,  and  a  hot 
wall  before  one's  eyes.  But  I'm  a  miserable  slave.  I 
must  either  work  or  see  'em  starve  ;  a  very  hard  lot  it 
is  to  be  a  workingman.  But  it  is  not  only  the  work 
that  I  complain  of,  but  being  obliged  to  work  just  as  he 
pleases.  It's  enough  to  spoil  any  man's  temper  to  be 
told  to  dig  up  those  asparagus  beds  just  when  they 
were  getting  to  be  the  very  pride  of  the  parish.  And 
what  for?  Why,  to  make  room  for  Madam's  new 
gravel  walk,  that  she  mayn't  wret  her  feet  going  over 
the  grass.  Now,  I  ask  you,'  continued  Tom,  still  talk- 
to  himself,  '  whether  that  isn't  enough  to  spoil  any 
man's  temper?' 

4  Ahem  ! '  said  a  voice  close  to  him. 

Tom  started,  and  to  his  great  surprise,  saw  a  small 
man,  about  the  size  of  his  own  baby  sitting  com- 
posedly at  his  elbow.  He  was  dressed  in  green  — 
green  hat,  green  coat,  and  green  shoes.  He  had 
very  bright  black  eyes,  and  they  twinkled  very  much 
as  he  looked  at  Tom  and  smiled. 

4  Servant,  sir ! '  said  Tom,  edging  himself  a  little 
farther  off. 

'  Miserable  slave,'  said  the  small  man,  '  art  thou  so 
far  lost  to  the  noble  sense  of  freedom  that  thy  very 
salutation  acknowledges  a  mere  stranger  as  thy 
master ! ' 

4  Who  are  you,'  said  Tom,  '  and  how  dare  you  call 
me  a  slave  ? ' 

4  Tom,'  said  the  small  man,  with  a  knowing  look, 
4  don't  speak  roughly.  Keep  your  rough  words  for 
142 


WITH    SILVER    TAILS. 

your  wife,  my  man ;    she  is  bound   to  bear  them  — 
what  else  is  she  for,  in  fact?' 

'  I'll  thank  you  to  let  my  affairs  alone,'  interrupted 
Tom,  shortly. 

'  Tonl,  I'm  your  friend  ;  I  think  I  can  help  you  out 
of  your  difficulty.  I  admire  your  spirit.  Would  / 
demean  myself  to  work  for  a  master,  and  attend  to  all 
his  whims  ? '  As  he  said  this  the  small  man  stooped 
and  looked  very  earnestly  into  the  stream.  Drip, 
drip,  drip,  went  the  water  over  a  little  fall  in  the 
stones,  and  wetted  the  watercresses  till  they  shone  in 
the  light,  while  the  leaves  fluttered  overhead  and 
checkered  the  moss  with  glittering  spots  of  sunshine. 
Tom  watched  the  small  man  with  earnest  attention  as 
he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  cresses.  At  last  he 
saw  him  snatch  something,  which  looked  like  a  little 
fish,  out  of  the  water,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

'  It's  my  belief,  Tom,'  he  said,  resuming  the  con- 
versation, '  that  you  have  been  puzzling  your  head 
with  what  people  call  Political  Economy.' 

'  Never  heard  of  such  a  thing,'  said  Tom.  '  But 
I've  been  thinking  that  I  don't  see  why  I'm  to  work 
any  more  than  those  that  employ  me.' 

'  Why,  you  see,  Tom,  you  must  have  money.  Now 
it  seems  to  me  that  there  are  but  four  ways  of  getting 
money  :  there's  Stealing '  — 

'  Which  won't  suit  me]  interrupted  Tom. 

'  Very  good.     Then  there's  Borrowing '  — 

'  Which  I  don't  want  to  do.' 

'  And  there's  Begging '  — 

'  No,  thank  you,'  said  Tom,  stoutly. 
H3 


THE    MINNOWS 

'  And  there's  giving  money's  worth  for  the  money  ; 
that  is  to  say,  Work,  Labor.' 

'  Your  words  are  as  fine  as  a  sermon,'  said  Tom. 

*  But  look  here,  Tom,'  proceeded  the  man  in  green, 
drawing  his  hand  out  of  his  pocket,  and  showing  a 
little    dripping  fish  in   his  palm,  '  what  do  you  call 
this?' 

'  I  call  it  a  very  small  minnow,'  said  Tom. 

'  And  do  you  see  anything  particular  about  its  tail  ? ' 

*  It  looks  uncommon  bright,'  answered  Tom,  stoop- 
ing to  look  at  it. 

1  It  does,'  said  the  man  in  green,  '  and  now  I'll 
tell  you  a  secret,  for  I'm  resolved  to  be  your  friend. 
Every  minnow  in  this  stream  —  they  are  very  scarce, 
mind  you  —  but  every  one  of  them  has  a  silver  tail.' 

4  You  don't  say  so,'  exclaimed  Tom,  opening  his 
eyes  very  wide ;  '  fishing  for  minnows,  and  being 
one's  own  master,  would  be  a  great  deal  pleasanter 
than  the  sort  of  life  I've  been  leading  this  many  a 
day.' 

'  Well,  keep  the  secret  as  to  where  you  get  them ; 
and  much  good  may  it  do  you,'  said  the  man  in  green. 
'  Farewell,  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  freedom.'  So  say- 
ing, he  walked  away,  leaving  Tom  on  the  brink  of 
the  stream,  full  of  joy  and  pride. 

He  went  to  his  master,  and  told  him  that  he  had 
an  opportunity  for  bettering  himself,  and  should  not 
work  for  him  any  longer.  The  next  day  he  arose 
with  the  dawn,  and  went  to  work  to  search  for  min- 
nows. But  of  all  the  minnows  in  the  world  never 
were  any  so  nimble  as  those  with  silver  tails.  They 
were  very  shy,  too,  and  had  as  many  turns  and  doubles 

144 


WITH    SILVER    TAILS. 

as  a  hare  ;  what  a  life  they  led  him  !  They  made  him 
troll  up  the  stream  for  miles  ;  then,  just  as  he  thought 
his  chase  was  at  an  end,  and  he  was  sure  of  them, 
they  would  leap  quite  out  of  the  •water,  and  dart  down 
the  stream  again  like  little  silver  arrows.  Miles  and 
miles  he  went,  tired,  and  wet,  and  hungry.  He  came 
home  late  in  the  evening,  completely  wearied  and 
footsore,  with  only  three  minnows  in  his  pocket,  each 
with  a  silver  tail. 

'  But  at  any  rate,'  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  lay  down 
in  his  bed,  '  though  they  lead  me  a  pretty  life,  and  I 
have  to  work  harder  than  ever,  yet  I  certainly  am 
free  ;  no  man  can  order  me  about  now.' 

This  went  on  for  a  whole  week ;  he  worked  very 
hard ;  but  on  Saturday  afternoon  he  had  only  caught 
fourteen  minnows. 

'  If  it  waagi't  for  the  pride  of  the  thing,'  he  said  to 
himself,  '  I'd  have  no  more  to  do  with  fishing  for  min- 
nows. This  is  the  hardest  work  I  ever  did.  I  am 
quite  a  slave  to  them.  I  rush  up  and  down,  I  dodge 
in  and  out,  I  splash  myself,  and  fret  myself,  and  broil 
myself  in  the  sun,  and  all  for  the  sake  of  a  dumb 
thing,  that  gets  the  better  of  me  with  a  wag  of  its 
fins.  But  it's  no  use  standing  here  talking ;  I  must 
set  off  to  the  town  and  sell  them,  or  Sally  will  wonder 
why  I  don't  bring  her  the  week's  money.'  So  he 
walked  to  the  town,  and  offered  his  fish  for  sale  as 
great  curiosities. 

'  Very  pretty,'  said  the  first  people  he  showed  them 
to ;  but  '  they  never  bought  anything  that  was  not 
useful.' 

'  Were  they  good  to  eat  ? '  asked  the  woman  at  the 


THE    MINNOWS 

next  house.  '  No  !  Then  they  would  not  have 
them.-' 

'  Much  too  dear,'  said  a  third. 

'  And  not  so  very  curious,'  said  a  fourth  ;  '  but  they 
hoped  he  had  come  by  them  honestly.' 

At  the  fifth  house  they  said,  '  O  !  pooh ! '  when  he 
exhibited  them.  '  No,  no,  they  were  not  quite  so  silly 
as  to  believe  there  were  fish  in  the  world  with  silver 
tails ;  if  there  had  been,  they  should  often  have  heard 
of  them  before.' 

At  the  sixth  house  they  were  such  a  very  long  time 
turning  over  his  fish,  pinching  their  tails,  bargaining, 
and  discussing  them,  that  he  ventured  to  remonstrate, 
and  request  that  they  would  make  more  haste.  There- 
upon they  said  if  he  did  not  choose  to  wait  their 
pleasure,  they  would  not  purchase  at  all.  So  they 
shut  the  door  upon  him  ;  and  as  this  soured  his  tem- 
per, he  spoke  rather  roughly  at  the  next  two  houses, 
and  was  dismissed  at  once  as  a  very  rude,  uncivil 
person. 

But  after  all,  his  fish  were  really  great  curiosities  ; 
and  when  he  had  exhibited  them  all  over  the  town, 
set  them  out  in  all  lights,  praised  their  perfections,  and 
taken  immense  pains  to  conceal  his  impatience  and  ill- 
temper,  he  at  length  contrived  to  sell  them  all,  and 
got  exactly  fourteen  shillings  for  them,  and  no  more. 

'  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Tom  Turner,'  he  said  to 
himself,  '  in  my  opinion  you've  been  making  a  great 
fool  of  yourself,  and  I  only  hope  Sally  will  not  find  it 
out.  You  was  tired  of  being  a  workingman,  and 
that  man  in  green  has  cheated  you  into  doing  the 
146 


WITH    SILVER    TAILS. 

hardest  week's  work  you  ever  did  in  your  life,  by 
making  you  believe  it  was  more  free-like  and  easier. 
Well,  you  said  you  didn't  mind  it,  because  you  had  no 
master ;  but  I've  found  out  this  afternoon,  Tom,  and 
I  don't  mind  your  knowing  it,  that  every  one  of  those 
customers  of  yours  was  your  master  just  the  same. 
Why  !  you  were  at  the  beck  of  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  that  came  near  you  —  obliged  to  be  in  a 
good  temper,  too,  which  was  very  aggravating.' 

'  True,  Tom,'  said  the  man  in  green,  starting  up  in 
his  path, '  I  knew  you  were  a  man  of  sense  ;  look  you, 
you're  all  workingmen,  and  you  must  all  please  your 
customers.  Your  master  was  your  customer ;  what 
he  bought  of  you  was  your  work.  Well,  you  must 
let  the  work  be  such  as  will  please  the  customer.' 

'  All  workingmen  ;    how  do  you   make  that   out? 
said  Tom,  chinking  the  fourteen  shillings  in  his  hand. 
'  Is  my  master  a  workingman  ;  and  has  he  got  a  mas- 
ter of  his  own  ?     Nonsense  ! ' 

'  No  nonsense  at  all ;  —  he  works  with  his  head, 
keeps  his  books,  and  manages  his  great  works.  He 
has  many  masters,  else  why  was  he  nearly  ruined  last 
year  ? ' 

'  He  was  nearly  ruined  because  he  made  some  new- 
fangled kind  of  patterns  at  his  works,  and  people 
would  not  buy  them,'  said  Tom.  '  Well,  in  a  way 
of  speaking,  then,  he  works  to  please  his  masters, 
poor  fellow  !  He  is,  as  one  may  say,  a  fellow-servant, 
and  plagued  with  very  awkward  masters  !  So  I  should 
not  mind  his  being  my  master,  and  I  think  I'll  go  and 
tell  him  so.' 

147 


THE    MINNOWS    WITH    SILVER    TAILS. 

'  I  would,  Tom,'  said  the  man  in  green.  '  Tell  him 
you  have  not  been  able  to  better  yourself,  and  you 
have  no  objection  now  to  dig  up  the  asparagus  bed.' 

So  Tom  trudged  home  to  his  wife,  gave  her  the 
money  he  had  earned,  got  his  old  master  to  take  him 
back,  and  kept  a  profound  secret  his  adventures  with 
the  man  in  green,  and  the  fish  with  the  silver  tails. 
148 


I  HAVE  A  RIGHT. 

WE,  as  a  nation,  are  remarkably  fond  of  talking 
about  our  rights.  The  expression,  '  I  have  a 
right,'  is  constantly  in  our  mouths.  This  is  one  rea- 
son, among  some  others,  why  it  is  fortunate  for  us  that 
we  speak  English,  since  this  favorite  phrase  in  more 
than  one  continental  tongue  has  no  precise  equivalent. 
Whether  the  nation's  phrase  grew  out  of  the  nation's 
character,  or  whether  the  happy  possession  of  such. 
a  phrase  has  helped  to  mould  that  character,  it 
is  scarcely  now  worth  while  to  inquire.  Certain 
it  is  that  those  generations  which  make  proverbs, 
make  thereby  laws  which  govern  their  children's 
children,  and  thus,  perhaps,  it  comes  to  pass  that  this 
neat,  independent,  Anglo-Saxon  phrase  helps  to  get 
and  keep  for  us  the  very  rights  it  tells  of.  For,  as 
under  some  governments  it  is  true  that  the  dearest  and 
most  inalienable  rights  of  the  race  go  by  the  name  of 
privilege,  indulgence,  or  immunity,  a  concession,  and 
not  an  inheritance  ;  a  gift,  and  not  a  birthright ;  while 
ancient  rights,  in  our  sense  of  this  word,  merge  into 
mere  privileges  held  at  the  ruler's  will,  and  having 
been  once  called  privileges, , may  be  exchanged  by 

149 


I    HAVE    A    RIGHT. 

him  for  other  privileges  which  may  amount  to  no 
more  than  the  sight  of  a  glittering  show ;  so  in  our 
case  it  is  true  that  privileges  have  a  constant  tendency 
to  merge  into  rights.  Let  any  man  grant  his  neigh- 
bors the  privilege  of  walking  through  his  fields,  his 
park,  or  his  grounds,  and  then  see  how  soon  it  will  be 
said  that  they  have  a  right  to  traverse  them  ;  and  in 
fact  very  soon  they  'will  have  a  right  by  the  law  of  the 
land  ;  for,  to  prove  the  right,  they  need  only  show  that 
they  have  enjoyed  the  privilege  '  time  out  of  mind.' 
And  then,  again,  Right  is  very  unfair  to  his  cousin 
Privilege,  for,  by  the  laws  of  England,  sixty  years 
constitute  '  time  out  of  mind.' 

By  taking  the  trouble  to  investigate,  any  person  may 
find  many  parallel  cases,  and  so  we  keep  the  path  of 
liberty.  First  we  got  that  path  as  a  sort  of  privilege 
which  was  winked  at ;  then  we  made  out  that  we  had 
a  right  to  it !  next  we  proved  that  it  wanted  widening, 
and  then  we  paved  it  handsomely,  made  a  king's 
highway  of  it,  and  took  pains  to  have  it  constantly  in 
repair. 

Now,  it  being  an  acknowledged  thing,  my  dear 
friends,  that  we  have  rights,  and  that  we  like  to  have 
these  facts  well  known  to  all  whom  it  may  concern  — 
how  glad  you  will  be  if  I  can  point  out  to  you  certain 
rights  which  some  of  you  have  scarcely  considered  at 
all.  I  have  met  with  numbers  of  worshipful  old  gen- 
tlemen, industrious  young  workmen,  and  women  of 
all  degrees,  who  knew  well  how  to  use  our  favorite 
phrase  in  its  common  vulgar  sense  ;  but  I  knew  a 
worshipful  old  baker,  in  an  old  country  town,  who 
used  it  oftener  than  any  of  them.  To  hear  him  hold 
150 


I    HAVE    A    RIGHT. 

forth  about  his  rights,  did  one's  heart  good,  and  made 
one  proud  of  one's  country.  Everybody  else's  rights 
appeared  flat  and  tame  compared  with  his,  and  the  best 
of  it  was,  that  no  one  was  ever  heard  to  dispute  them. 

Dear  old  man,  he  is  dead  now,  but  some  of  his 
rights  survive  him.  I  was  on  my  way  home  to  the 
neighborhood  of  that  little  country  town  wherein,  for 
so  many  years,  he  might  have  been  seen  on  a  summer 
evening,  standing  in  his  shop  door,  and  exercising  the 
rights  he  loved,  when  it  so  happened  that  I  heard 
some  of  my  countrymen  also  discoursing  about  their 
rights,  and  the  more  they  talked,  the  more  petty  and 
insignificant  seemed  their  rights  compared  with  those 
of  Mr.  Bryce,  the  baker. 

We  took  our  tickets  at  the  London  terminus  of  the 
Great  Northern  Railway,  and  entered  an  empty  car- 
riage ;  in  a  corner  seat,  however,  a  gentleman's  great- 
coat was  lying ;  presently  a  lady  got  in,  and  now  the 
two  vacant  seats  were,  it  so  happened,  as  far  as  possi- 
ble, asunder. 

The  next  arrivals  were  another  lady  with  a  little 
girl  about  four  years  old.  Without  any  hesitation  she 
took  up  the  coat,  and  placing  it  in  another  corner  seat, 
set  her  child  in  the  division  near  herself. 

Had  she  a  right  to  do  this?  you  inquire.  Certainly 
not ;  and  she  was  soon  reminded  of  that  fact,  for  just 
at  the  last  minute  a  calm  and  rather  supercilious  look- 
ing young  man  entered,  glanced  coldly  at  her,  and 
said,  '  I  must  trouble  you,  madam,  for  that  seat ;  I 
laid  my  coat  on  it  some  time  ago,  and  also  turned  the 
cushion;  I  really  must  request  you  to  leave  it,  as  I 
have  a  right  to  it.' 


I    HAVE    A    RIGHT. 

He  laid  as  strong  an  emphasis  on  the  must,  as  if 
to  turn  her  out  was  a  stringent  duty.  Perhaps  she 
thought  so,  for  as  she  glanced,  in  rising,  at  the  child, 
she  said,  with  a  smile  at  the  youth,  who  was  quite 
young  enough  to  be  her  son,  '  Certainly  you  have  an 
undoubted  right  to  this  seat ; '  and  then  added,  '  but  I 
suppose  no  one  would  have  disputed  your  right  to 
give  it  up  to  me,  if  you  had  chosen.' 

Her  easy  self-possession,  and  perhaps  her  remark, 
made  him  look  a  little  awkward  ;  but  as  the  lady  rose, 
my  brother  changed  places  with  the  child,  and  thus 
they  still  sat  together ;  and  while  the  youth  settled 
himself  in  the  place  he  had  a  right  to,  our  train  set 
off  with  one  of  those  thrice  horrible,  wavering,  and 
querulous  screeches  of  which  the  Great  Northern  has 
a  monopoly. 

While  we  went  through  the  first  tunnel,  rending  the 
air  all  the  time  with  terrific  shrieks,  the  little  girl  held 
tightly  by  her  mother's  hand,  and  two  large  tears 
rolled  down  her  rosy  face.  '  We  shall  soon  be  at 
Hornsey,'  said  her  mother,  and  accordingly  in  a  few 
minutes  we  stopped,  and  while  the  lady  and  child  dis- 
appeared from  our  view,  the  owner  of  the  seat  ejacu- 
lated, '  Cool ! '  and  then  looking  round  the  carriage, 
he  continued,  as  appealing  to  those  who  were  sure  to 
agree  with  him  — '  When  a  man  has  a  right  to  a  thing, 
why,  he  has  a  right ;  but  to  have  a  right  to  waive  a 
right,  is  a  dodge  that  a  man  wouldn't  expect  to  be 
told  of.' 

This  most  lucid  speech  he   closed  with  a  general 
smile,  and  we  set  ofF  again  with  another  shriek,  longer 
and  shriller  than  the  former  one. 
152 


I    HAVE    A    RIGHT. 

After  an  hour's  travelling  we  were  deserted  by  all 
our  fellow-passengers,  and  seemed  to  be  waiting  a 
very  long  time  at  a  little  country  station.  At  length 
two  old  gentlemen  entered,  and,  as  the  railway  man 
opened  the  door  for  them,  I  said  to  him,  '  Can  you 
tell  me  why  we  are  detained  here  so  long?' 

'  Yes,  ma'am,'  he  replied ;  '  there's  an  excursion 
train  due  directly,  and  we're  shunted  off  the  line  to 
let  it  pass.' 

'  Horrid  bore  ! '  said  one  old  gentleman. 

'  Disgraceful  shame  !  '  said  the  other  ;  '  but  don't  let 
that  make  you  uneasy,  young  lady,'  he  added,  politely 
addressing  me;  '"shunted"  means  nothing  danger- 
ous.' 

I  was  about  to  ask  what  it  did  mean,  when  with  a 
whiz,  and  a  great  noise  of  cheering,  the  excursion 
train  shot  past  us,  displaying  a  long,  long  succession 
of  second  and  third-class  carriages,  every  window 
garnished  with  pale  faces  of  men  and  women,  be- 
sides numbers  of  delicate-looking  children. 

'  Disgraceful  shame  ! '  repeated  the  stoutest  of  the 
old  gentlemen  ;  '  here's  our  train  twenty  minutes  late  ; 
twenty  minutes,  sir,  by  the  clock.' 

'  I  should  think,'  saiji  my  brother,  '  that  this  is  not  a 
grievance  of  very  frequent  occurrence  —  mail  trains 
are  not  often  obliged  to  give  way  to  the  convenience 
of  the  excursionists ;  but  we  were  behind  time  when 
we  got  up  to  this  station,  and  as  we  must  stop  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  shortly,  we  should  very  much 
have  detained  that  train  if  it  had  been  on  the  same 
line,  and  behind  us.' 

'  Well,  I  can't  make  it  out,'  was  the  reply  :  '  and 
7*  153 


I    HAVE    A    RIGHT. 

•what  does  their  being  detained  matter  to  me  ;  I  paid 
for  my  ticket  and  I've  a  right  to  be  taken  on.' 

'  Certainly,'  said  the  other ;  '  no  man  has  a  right  to 
interfere  with  my  business  for  the  sake  of  his  pleasure 

—  such  new-fangled  notions  !  —  What's  the  good  of  a 
day's  pleasure  to  the  working  classes?' 

'  They  have  it  so  seldom,'  my  brother  suggested, 
'  that  they  have  plenty  of  time  to  consider  that  ques- 
tion between  one  day's  pleasure  and  the  next.' 

'  Horrid  bore,  these  excursion  trains  ! '  repeated  the 
first  speaker ;  '  filling  the  country  with  holiday  folk  ; 
what  do  they  want  with  holidays  —  much  better  stop 
at  home,  and  work,  and  earn  a  little  more.  What's 
the  good  of  sending  out  a  swarm  of  pale-faced,  knock- 
knee'cl  London  artisans,  and  gaping  children,  that 
don't  know  a  kite  from  a  jackdaw  ?  If  you  must  give 
'em  a  treat,  let  it  be  a  good  dinner.  Country  air, 
indeed  !  /  don't  find  London  unhealthy  ;  and  I  spend 
three  or  four  months  in  it  every  year.' 

'  To  be  sure,'  echoed  his  companion,  '  these  London 
clergy  and  ministers  ought  to  know  better  than  to 
spread  such  sentimental  nonsense  among  the  people 

—  duty  comes  before  pleasure,    doesn't  it?     Why,  a 
man    had   the   assurance  to  write   to   me  —  a  perfect 
stranger  —  to  know  whether  I'd  open  my  park  for  a 
shoal  of  his  cockney  parishioners   to  dine  and  drink 
tea   in !     He   knew   it  was  closed,  forsooth,  but   he 
hoped  for  once,  and  in  the  cause  of  philanthropy,  I'd 
open    it.     I    should    like  to   know  where   my  young 
coveys  would  be  when  every  inch  in  my  wood  had 
been  overrun,  and  all  the  bracken  trod  down  in  the 
cause  of  philanthropy?     No,  I  wrote  him  a  piece  of 

154 


I    HAVE    A    RIGHT. 

my  mind  —  I  said,  "Rev.  Sir,  I  do  not  fence  and 
guard  my  grounds  that  paupers  may  make  a  play- 
ground of  them  ;  and,  though  your  request  makes  me 
question  your  good  taste  a  little,  I  trust  to  your  good 
sense  not  to  render  your  people  liable  to  be  taken  up 
as  trespassers.  I  have  a  right  to  prosecute  all  tres- 
passers in  my  grounds,  and,  therefore,  I  advise  you 
to  keep  your  people  clear  of  them."  ' 

'  And  very  proper,  too,'  replied  the  other;  'there 
are  plenty  of  people  that  will  receive  them  ;  there's 
your  neighbor,  Sir  Edward,  who's  happy  and  proud 
to  entertain  as  many  as  they  like  to  pour  into  his 
domain.' 

Upon  this  they  both  laughed,  as  it  appeared,  in  pity 
of  the  said  Sir  Edward.  '  Well,  well,  every  man  has 
a  right  to  his  own  opinion.'  (N.  B.,  is  that  a  fact?) 
'  Sir  Edward  wanted  me,  the  other  day,  to  subscribe 
to  some  new  baths  and  wash-houses.  "  My  good 
fellow,"  I  said,  "  when  all  the  paupers  in  London 
can  earn  their  own  living,  it  will  be  time  enough  to 
talk  of  washing  their  faces  ;  but  for  goodness'  sake 
let  'em  earn  dinnei's  befoi'e  you  offer  'em  Windsor 
soap,  and  hats  before  you  find  'em  pomatum." ' 

'  And  may  I  know  what  Sir  Edward  said  in  reply?' 
I  inquired,  addressing  the  old  gentleman. 

He  seemed  to  consider.  '  Well,'  he  said,  after  a 
puzzled  pause,  '  it  was  something  of  this  sort — some- 
thing about  the  decencies  of  life  being  striven  for  with 
better  heart,  if  a  few  of  its  amenities  were  within 
reach.' 

This  reminded  me  of  a  poor  woman  who  lived  in  a 
particularly  dirty  cottage,  near  my  father's  house,  in 
155 


I    HAVE    A    RIGHT. 

the  country.  I  one  day  tapped  at  her  door,  and  she 
opened  it  in  a  gown  all  spotted  with  white-wash. 
'  What !  cleaning,  Mrs.  Matts  ? '  I  exclaimed  in  sur- 
prise. '  Why,  yes,  Miss,'  she  replied,  '  for  my  hus- 
band's brother  has  just  been  up  from  London,  where 
he  works,  to  see  us,  and  brought  vis  a  beautiful  pictur 
of  the  Queen,  all  in  a  gilt  frame,  Miss ;  and  when 
he'd  hung  it  up,  it  made  the  walls  look  so  shocking 
dirty,  that  I  couldn't  abear  the  sight  of  'em,  so  I'm 
cleaning,  you  see.' 

But  enough  has  been  said  about  the  rights  of  other 
people ;  let  us  now  turn  to  Mr.  Bryce,  the  baker. 

Bryce  was  working  for  a  baker  in  the  village  near 
which  my  grandfather  lived.  His  master  died  sud- 
denly, leaving  a  widow  and  nine  children.  Bryce 
v/as  an  enterprising  young  man,  and  had  been  think- 
ing of  setting  up  for  himself.  My  grandfather,  how- 
ever, heard  that  after  his  master's  death  he  gave  up 
this  wish,  and  continued  to  work  at  his  former  wages, 
trying  to  keep  the  business  together  for  the  widow. 
Happening  to  meet  him,  he  asked  him  if  this  report 
were  true? 

'  Why,  yes,  sir,'  said  Bryce  ;  '  you  see  nobody  else 
would  manage  everything  for  her  without  a  share  of 
the  profits  ;  and  nine  children  —  what  a  tug  they  are  ! 
so  as  I  have  nobody  belonging  to  me  —  nobody  that 
has  any  claim  on  me  — ' 

'  But  I  thought  you  wanted  to  set  up  for  your- 
self?' 

'  And  so  I  did,  sir ;  and  if  I'd  a  wife  and  family,  I'd 
make  a  push  to  get  on  for  their  sakes,  —  but  I've 
none ;  and  so,  as  I  can  live  on  what  I  get,  and  hurt 


I    HAVE    A   RIGHT. 

nobody  by  it,  "  /  have  a  right "  to  help  her,  poor 
soul,  as  I've  a  mind  to.' 

Soon  after  this  the  widow  took  to  dress-making,  and 
did  so  well  that  she  wanted  no  help  from  Bryce,  who 
now  set  up  for  himself,  and  borrowed  a  sum  of  money 
from  my  grandfather  to  begin  with.  At  first  he  was 
so  poor,  and  the  weekly  profits  were  so  small,  that  he 
requested  my  grandfather  to  receive  the  trifle  of  in- 
terest monthly,  and  for  the  first  two  months  he  said  it 
'  completely  cleared  him  out '  to  pay  it.  My  grand- 
father was,  therefore,  rather  surprised  one  Saturday 
evening,  as  he  sauntered  down  the  village  street,  to  see 
four  decrepit  old  people  hobbling  down  the  steps  of 
his  shop,  each  carrying  a  good-sized  loaf,  and  loudly 
praising  the  generosity  of  Mr.  Bryce.  The  sun  was 
just  setting,  and-  cast  a  ruddy  glow  on  the  young 
baker's  face  as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  post  of  his 
door,  but  he  started  with  some  confusion  when  he  saw 
my  grandfather,  and  hastily  asked  him  to  enter  his 
shop.  '  I  reckon  you  are  surprised,  sir,'  he  said,  '  to 
see  me  giving  away  bread  before  I've  paid  my 
debt :  but  just  look  round,  sir.  Those  four  loaves 
were  all  I  had  left,  except  what  I  can  eat  myself,  and 
they  were  stale  ;  so  think  what  they'd  have  been  by 
Monday  morning.' 

'  I  don't  wish  to  interfere  with  your  charities,'  said 
my  grandfather. 

'  But,  sir,'  said  Bryce, '  I  want  you  to  see  that  I'm  as 
eager  to  pay  off  that  money  as  I  can  be ;  but  people 
won't  buy  stale  bread  —  they  won't,  indeed  ;  and  so  I 
thought  /  had  a  right  to  give  away  those  four  loaves, 
being  they  were  left  upon  my  hands.' 

157 


I    HAVE    A   RIGHT. 

'  I  think  so  too,'  said  my  grandfather,  who  was  then 
quite  a  young  man,  '  and  I  shall  think  so  next  Satur- 
day and  the  Saturday  after.' 

'  Thank  you,  sir,  I'm  sure,'  said  the  baker. 

In  course  of  time  the  debt  was  paid,  though  almost 
every  Saturday  those  old  people  hobbled  from  the 
door.  And  now  Mr.  Bryce's  rights  were  found  to 
increase  with  his  business  and  enlarge  with  his  family. 

First  he  had  only  a  right  to  give  away  the  stale 
loaves,  '  being  he  was  in  debt.'  Then  he  had  a 
right  to  give  away  all  that  was  left,  '  being  he 
was  out  of  debt.'  While  he  was  single,  he  had 
a  right  to  bake  dinners  for  nothing,  '  being  he 
had  no  family  to  save  for.'  When  he  was  married, 
he  had  a  right  to  consider  the  poor,  '  being,  as  he 
was,  so  prosperous  as  to  have  enough  for  his  own, 
and  something  over.'  When  he  had  ten  children, 
business  still  increasing,  he  found  out  that  he  had  a 
right  to  adopt  his  wife's  little  niece,  '  for,  bless  you, 
sir,'  he  observed,  '  I've  such  a  lot  of  my  own,  that  a 
pudding  that  serves  for  ten  shares  serves  for  eleven 
just  as  well.  ^And,  as  for  schooling,  I  wouldn't  think 
of  it,  if  my  boys  and  girls  were  not  as  good  scholars 
as  I'd  wish  to  see  ;  for  I  spare  nothing  for  their  learn- 
ing—  but  being  they  are,  and  money  still  in  the  till, 
why,  I've  a  right  to  let  this  little  one  share.  In  fact, 
when  a  man  has  earned  a  jolly  hot  dinner  for  his 
family  every  day,  and  seen  'em  say  their  grace  over  it, 
he  has  a  right  to  give  what  they  leave  on't  to  the 
needy,  especially  if  his  wife's  agreeable.' 

And  so  Mr.  Bryce,  the  baker,  went  on  prospering, 
and  finding  out  new  rights  to  keep  pace  with  his  pros- 
158 


I    HAVE    A    RIGHT. 

perity.  In  due  time  his  many  sons  and  daughters 
grew  up  ;  the  latter  married,  and  the  former  were 
placed  out  in  life.  Finally,  after  a  long  and  happy 
life,  Mr.  Bryce,  the  baker,  died,  and  in  his  will,  after 
leaving  £500  apiece  to  all  his  sons  and  daughters,  he 
concluded  his  bequests  with  this  characteristic  sen- 
tence :  — 

'  And,  my  dear  children,  by  the  blessing  of  God, 
having  put  you  out  well  in  life,  and  left  you  all  hand- 
some, I  feel  (especially  as  I  have  the  hearty  consent 
of  you  all)  that  I  have  a  right  to  leave  the  rest  of  my 
property,  namely  £7°°?  f°r  the  use  of  those  that  want 

it.     First,  the  village  of  D being  very   much   in 

want  of  good  water,  I  leave  £400,  the  estimated  cost, 
for  digging  a  well,  and  making  a  pump  over  it,  the 
same  to  be  free  to  all ;  and  the  interest  of  the  remain- 
der I  leave  to  be  spent  in  blankets  every  winter,  and 
given  away  to  the  most  destitute  widows  and  orphans 
in  the  parish.' 

So  the  well  was  dug,  and  the  pump  was  made ;  and 
as  long  as  the  village  lasts,  opposite  his  own  shop  door, 
the  sparkling  water  will  gush  out ;  the  village  mothers 
will  gossip  as  they  fill  their  buckets  there  ;  the  village 
fathers  will  cool  their  sunburnt  foreheads  there,  and 
the  village  children  will  put  their  ears  to  it  and  listen 
to  its  purling  down  below  ;  a  witness  to  the  rights, 
and  a  proof  of  how  his  rights  were  used  by  Bryce  the 
baker. 

159 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

ALONG  while  ago,  says  the  legend,  when  the 
dominion  of  the  Moors  was  beginning  to  decline 
in  Spain,  it  was  rumored  on  a  certain  day,  in  Toledo, 
that  the  Christians  were  coming  down  in  great  force 
to  besiege  the  city,  and-  had  vowed  that  they  would 
desecrate  the  Mosque,  and  despoil  it  of  its  gold  and 
jewels  —  that  they  would  fight  their  way  over  the 
bridge  of  the  Tagus,  and  bear  away  the  choicest  of  its 
treasures  from  the  great  Alcazar  of  Toledo. 

But  a  few  days  before  these  tidings  arrived,  a  mar- 
vellous stupor  had  come  upon  the  Moorish  masters  of 
the  city  ;  some  said  it  was  the  heat,  but  they  had  never 
cared  for  the  heat  before,  since  they  came  from  a  hot- 
ter region.  They  walked  about,  it  is  true,  but  it  was 
slowly,  and  in  the  great  shadows  of  their  houses,  and 
if  any  man  crossed  over  the  street,  he  held  his  hand  to 
his  forehead  and  sighed.  A  few  were  so  faint  that 
they  lay  down  to  rest  on  the  steps  of  the  Alcazar ; 
they  thought  the  scent  of  the  pomegranate  flowers 
oppressed  them,  though  none  had  complained  of  this 
scent  before.  Others  believed  that  it  was  a  thin  vapor 
which  rose  up  in  the  heat  from  the  glassy  bosom  of 

161 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

the  Tagus,  and  spread  out  like  steam  above  the  high- 
est roofs,  making  the  sun  look  red  and  fiery. 

In  spite  of  this,  says  the  legend,  they  set  about  de- 
fending themselves  ;  and  the  danger  being  imminent, 
they  shipped  great  store  of  costly  merchandise,  with 
jewels,  and  gold,  and  coined  money,  on  board  their 
vessels,  which  lay  in  the  Tagus,  and  sent  them  off,  to 
the  number  of  five,  with  orders  to  drop  down  the  river, 
double  the  Cape  St.  Vincent,  and  sail  up  the  Guadal- 
quivir, that  their  precious  lading  might  be  given  over 
into  the  keeping  of  the  Moorish  King  of  Seville. 

But  alas,  says  the  legend,  of  those  five  fair  vessels, 
not  one  ever  cast  anchor  before  the  walls  of  Seville, 
for  a  great  wind  took  them,  scattered  and  drove  them 
northward  as  soon  as  they  were  clear  of  the  Tagus, 
and  it  is  supposed  that  four  of  the  five  foundered  with 
their  crews  and  their  lading,  for  they  never  were  heard 
of  more. 

It  was  supposed  so,  says  the  legend,  but  the  Moor- 
ish masters  of  Toledo  had  little  time  to  fret  themselves 
for  their  sunken  treasure,  since  that  same  week  the 
plague  appeared,  and  while  the  Christians  were  har- 
assing them  without,  they  lay  in  the  still  heat  and 
perished  in  the  streets  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands 
within. 

One  vessel  was  left,  and  day  after  day,  in  the  wind 
and  the  storm,  she  drove  still  farther  northward,  and 
that  strange  lethargy  had  crept  on  board  with  the 
sailors,  though  now  there  was  neither  any  heat,  nor 
scent  of  pomegranate  flowers,  to  plead  as  a  reason  for 
it.  And  now  the  white  cliffs  of  a  great  island  were 
visible,  and  they  said  to  themselves  that  they  should 
162 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

never  behold  the  sunny  country  of  Spain  any  more, 
but  be  cast  ashore  at  the  end  of  the  earth,  in  the  king- 
dom of  William  the  Norman. 

Still  the  north  wind  raged,  and  the  foaming  billows 
broke  —  that  was  a  long  and  fearful  gale  :  some  of  the 
sailors  died  at  the  oar,  but  it  was  neither  hunger  nor 
toil  that  killed  them ;  and  when  at  last  the  wind 
dropped  suddenly,  and  the  vessel  drifted  on  to  a  sandy 
shore,  only  three  men  sprang  out  from  her.  There 
were  but  three  survivors,  for  the  plague  had  come  on 
board  with  them  and  their  treasure. 

These  three  men  sprang  ashore  ;  they  landed  one 
coffer  filled  with  gold,  precious  stones,  and  coined 
money.  It  was  as  much  as  their  failing  strength 
could  do.  The  islanders  fell  back  from  them,  for 
they  had  seen  the  dark  faces  of  the  dead  Moors  as 
they  lay  in  the  plague-stricken  vessel.  They  did  not 
molest  the  sailors,  but  let  them  sit  alone  on  the  shore 
bemoaning  their  fate  till  night  came  on,  and  their  ves- 
sel at  high  tide  drifted  out  again  to  sea,  while  these 
three  desolate  men  took  up  the  coffer  and  went  in- 
land, up  and  up,  among  the  Cumberland  hills. 

It  was  as  much  as  they  could  carry,  but  no  man 
cared  to  help.  They  wandered  about  among  the 
mountains,  and  the  last  time  they  were  seen,  it  was 
apparent  that  they  had  hidden  their  treasure  in  some 
cavern,  or  sunk  it  in  the  earth,  or  heaved  a  stone  upon 
it ;  for  the  coffer  was  gone.  Soon  after,  the  men  dis- 
appeared also  ;  but  whether  they  perished  among  the 
rocks,  or  died  of  the  plague,  none  could  tell ;  but 
though  many  and  many  a  cavern  has  been  searched, 
and  many  a  stone  displaced,  from  that  day  to  this, 

163 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

says  the  legend,  no  man  has  ever  set  eyes  upon  the 
glittering  Moorish  gold. 

So  much  for  legend ;  now  for  more  authentic  nar- 
rative. 

An  old  gentleman  sat  in  a  boat  on  one  of  the  love- 
liest of  the  English  lakes,  and  looked  up  at  the  moun- 
tains with  delight. 

'  Glorious  ! '  he  exclaimed  ;  '  superb  !  it  beats  Swit- 
zerland out  and  out.' 

Whether  he  was  right  is  nothing  to  the  purpose,  but 
he  said  it.  He  was  stout,  had  a  red  face,  blue  specta- 
cles, and  a  straw  hat  tied  to  his  button-hole  with  black 
ribbon. 

Now,  when  he  exclaimed,  '  It  beats  Switzerland  out 
and  out ! '  his  footman  sitting  opposite  to  him,  and 
thinking  the  observation  called  for  an  answer,  replied, 
with  prompt  respect,  '  Certainly,  sir,  no  doubt.' 

Thereupon  his  master  looked  at  his  fat  white  face, 
\vhich  expressed  no  manner  of  enthusiasm,  but  rather 
showed  an  absorbing  interest  in  the  provision  basket 
which  he  held  on  his  knee. 

'  Pray,  Richard,'  said  the  old  gentleman,  '  do  you 
take  any  pleasure  in  the  beauties  of  Nature  ? ' 

Richard  pondered,  and  answered  as  before,  respect- 
fully, '  Not  in  particular,  sir.' 

'  It's  for  want  of  knowing  more  about  them,'  said 
his  master,  good-humoredly  ;  '  to-morrow  I  am  going 
up  a  mountain  to  see  such  a  view  as  everybody  must 
delight  in  —  you  shall  go  too.' 

Richard  touched  his  hat. 

The  next  morning  the  old  gentleman,  with  two 
others,  quite  as  enthusiastic,  but  by  no  means  so  fat, 
164 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

and  with  a  guide,  and  two  hampers  containing  pat- 
ties, pigeon-pies,  hard-boiled  eggs,  potted  salmon,  new 
bread  and  butter,  and  water-cresses,  set  off,  his  servant 
accompanying  him,  to  see  the  beauties  of  Nature 
among  the  mountains. 

How  many  times  the  gentlemen  exclaimed,  '  Glori- 
ous !  hot  day  !  fine  view  !  lovely  scenery  ! '  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say.  How  many  times  the  footman  wished 
himself  at  home,  cleaning  his  plate,  waiting  at  table, 
or  doing  anything  in  the  world  but  climbing  a  moun- 
tain, it  is  also  impossible  to  say.  Happily  for  him  the 
path  got  so  steep,  and  the  day  got  so  hot,  that  all  at 
once  the  gentlemen  bethought  themselves  of  luncheon, 
and  decided  that  the  very  spot  where  they  then  stood 
was  the  right  one  to  take  it  in. 

So  the  guide,  not  by  any  means  disinclined  to  rest, 
led  them  a  little  aside,  and  turning  the  angle  of  a  steep 
rock,  suddenly  introduced  them  to  a  little  quiet  nook 
enclosed  with  high  rocks.  It  was  about  the  size, 
Richard  thought,  of  the  back  parlor  at  home,  only  it 
was  open  to  the  sky,  and  its  walls  were  hung  with  fox- 
gloves, broom,  tufts  of  heath  in  blossom,  and  a  few 
trailing  eglantines,  instead  of  pictures  and  looking- 
glasses.  How  still  the  place  was,  and  how  blue  the 
sky  above ! 

'Well,  Richard,'  said  his  master,  'what  did  you 
think  of  the  view?' 

Richard  replied  as  before,  respectfully,  '  That  he 
had  been  wondering  at  it  all  the  way  up  ;  everything 
below  looked  so  small,  in  particular  the  hay-stacks ; 
the  round  ones,  he  observed,  had  reminded  him  of 
queen-cakes,  and  the  square  ones  of  penny  sponge- 
165 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

cakes  or  quartern  loaves,  just  exactly  that  shape,  and 
certainly  no  bigger.' 

His  master  was  disappointed  to  find  that  Richard's 
comparison  was  queer  enough  to  make  both  the  other 
gentlemen  laugh  —  not,  however,  at  the  footman,  but 
at  his  master,  for  expecting  him  to  relish  the  scenery. 

They  soon  rose  from  their  lunch.  It  was  a  sin,  they 
said,  to  waste  the  sweet  weather  in  that  nook ;  they 
should  go  higher ;  but  Richard  might  stay  behind,  if 
he  liked,  and  pack  the  baskets ;  if  he  had  not  had 
enough  to  eat  either,  his  master  said  he  was  to  help 
himself. 

'  Thank  you,  sir,  I'm  sure,'  said  Richard,  gratefullv. 

Accordingly,  when  they  were  gone,  he  did  pack  the 
baskets,  regaling  himself  with  many  a  tit-bit  mean- 
while. This  pleasing  duty  fulfilled,  he  stretched  him- 
self under  the  steep  sandstone  walls  of  his  roofless 
room,  basked  in  the  hot  sun,  looked  up  into  the  glow- 
ing sky,  whistled,  and  fanned  himself  with  some 
twigs  of  broom,  which  were  covered  thick  with  flow- 
ers like  yellow  butterflies. 

A  thicket  of  broom  bushes  grew  against  the  side  of 
the  rock,  and  as  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  one  of 
them  to  pull  off  another  bough,  the  bush  swung  back 
to  its  place,  and  a  bird  flew  out  so  close  to  him  that 
she  swept  his  forehead  with  her  wings. 

He  peeped  into  the  bush.  Yes,  it  was,  as  he  had 
thought,  a  nest  —  as  pretty  as  moss  and  feathers  could 
make  it ;  and  with  four  pink  eggs  in  it,  quite  warm 
and  half  transparent ;  he  parted  the  thick  branches  of 
the  broom,  and  as  he  held  them  so,  a  sunbeam  struck 
between  them,  and  showed  a  little  hole  in  the  rock 

1 66 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

close  to  the  ground  ;  it  looked,  he  thought,  much  as 
the  arch  of  a  bridge  might  look,  if  the  river  beneath 
was  so  high  as  to  reach  within  a  few  inches  of  the 
key-stone.  He  pushed  himself  further  into  the  broom, 
and  with  his  hands  idly  swept  down  the  soft  sand,  and 
let  it  slide  down  a  little  rise  till  it  had  buried  to  their 
heads  some  tall  bluebells  that  grew  there.  Then  he 
noticed  that  the  arch,  as  more  of  it  became  disclosed, 
was  very  regular  for  a  natural  opening,  and  as  the 
sand  slipped  away,  it  revealed  the  top  of  what  seemed 
a  worm-eaten  wooden  door,  which  fitted  it  with  tolera- 
able  accuracy.  Nearly  a  foot  of  this  door  was  visible, 
when  Richard,  impatient  to  know  what  was  behind  it, 
took  a  stone,  and  striking  the  old  wood  with  some 
force,  drove  in  a  small  portion  of  it.  He  withdrew 
his  head  that  the  light  might  shine  into  it ;  there  was  a 
deep  cavity,  and  a  narrow  sunbeam  entering,  glittered 
and  trembled  upon  something  which  lay  on  the  sand 
in  a  heap  within,  and  was  red  and  fiery. 

His  heart  beat  quick,  his  eyes  became  accustomed 
to  the  dim  light  within,  he  could  see  bags  lying  side 
by  side ;  one  of  them  had  burst  open,  its  contents 
were  large  coins  —  surely  gold  coins  —  the  sunbeam 
was  red  upon  their  rims ;  yes,  they  were  gold,  they 
were  unknown,  they  were  unclaimed,  they  were  his  ! 

He  withdrew  his  eyes.  The  broom  boughs  swung 
back  again  and  concealed  the  opening ;  he  sat  down, 
propped  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and  a  whirling,  won- 
dering sense  of  possession,  together  with  a  suffocating 
fear  that  he  should  never  be  able  to  grasp  all  his  treas- 
ure unshared,  strove  within  him,  and  threw  him  into 
such  a  fever  of  excitement,  that  for  a  while  he  could 
167 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

scarcely  move  or  breathe.  At  last  he  mastered  these 
feelings,  forced  himself  again  into  the  thicket,  and 
thought  he  should  never  be  satisfied  with  staring  in 
again  and  again  at  the  glittering,  gleaming  gold. 

Incalculable  riches,  and  all  to  be  his  own  ! 

Yes,  all;  he  had  heard  of  such  people  as  Lords  of 
the  Manor,  his  master  was  one  down  in  the  south,  but 
Richard  did  not  mean  to  consider  the  law  ;  they  should 
all  be  his  own.  He  would  secure  them,  buy  a  fine 
house,  and  eat,  drink,  and  dress  of  the  very  best.  He 
exulted,  as  in  that  quiet  nook  alone  he  capered  and 
laughed  aloud ;  then  he  sat  down  and  began  to  ar- 
range his  thoughts. 

Let  us  see,  should  he  open  his  heart  and  share  them 
with  his  brother?  Share  them  !  nonsense  ;  no.  What 
had  his  brother  done  for  him?  Why,  only  this  — 
when  Richard  was  out  of  place  this  brother  gave  him 
two  sovereigns  out  of  his  own  wages,  and  afterwards 
he  spared  with  difficulty  five  shillings  more.  Now  his 
brother  never  expected  to  see  it  again.  Well,  Richard 
decided  to  exceed  his  expectations ;  he  would  return 
it,  every  farthing :  possibly  he  might  give  him  another 
sovereign  besides.  Then  there  were  his  two  sisters. 
As  to  the  elder,  she  certainly  had  been  very  good  to 
him  ;  she  had  many  children,  and  worked  hard,  yet 
when  Richard  was  taken  ill  she  had  nursed  him,  and 
sheltered  him,  and  sat  up  -with  him  at  night ;  she  had 
been  a  tme  and  tried  friend  to  him.  Well,  he  would 
reward  her ;  he  would  send  her  all  his  clothes  ;  for  of 
course  he  should  in  future  dress  like  a  gentleman.  He 
would  also  send  her  five  pounds.  No  ;  what  would 
be  the  use  of  that?  Her  drunken  husband  would  only 

168 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

squander  it  all  away ;  perhaps,  instead  of  that,  he 
would  adopt  one  of  her  boys — that  would  be  so  good, 
so  generous,  it  would  surely  be  full  payment.  Or, 
perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  pay  his  schooling,  and 
let  him  live  at  home  ;  if  he  were  brought  into  a  fine 
house  he  might  grow  presumptuous  ;  yes,  it  would  be 
better  to  pay  for  his  schooling,  and  now  and  then  to 
send  him  some  cast-off  clothes.  Then  there  was  his 
other  sister.  Why,  she  had  never  done  anything  par- 
ticular for  him,  so  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
for  her. 

And  his  parents?  It  certainly  would  be  his  duty 
to  allow  them  something,  and  he  should  do  it.  His 
father,  as  he  heard  from  home,  was  getting  very  feeble, 
and  could  hardly  earn  five  shillings  a  week  by  the 
chance  work  he  did  for  the  farmers,  for  he  was  past 
regular  day-labor.  His  mother  had  been  used  to  go 
out  washing,  but  lately  she  had  often  been  laid  up 
with  the  rheumatism.  A  regular  allowance  should 
it  be  ?  Why,  look  what  a  sum  horses  and  carriages 
cost ;  perhaps  a  present  each  quarter  would  be  better  ; 
tea  for  his  mother,  and  tobacco  for  his  father.  Yes, 
that  would  be  better ;  his  mother  could  make  a  little 
go  a  long  way,  and  he  would  send  a  blanket  also.  No 
pledging  himself  to  allowances  ;  he  might  find  that 
money  would  not  go  so  far  as  he  expected.  Why, 
Squire  Thorndike  was  always  deep  in  debt,  and  he 
had  four  thousand  a  year.  Sir  Thomas  Ludlow  was 
known  to  be  in  difficulties,  poor  gentleman  !  He  said 
free  trade  had  made  his  means  so  small.  Ah  !  free 
trade  was  a  very  hard  thing ;  he  should  find  it  hard 
himself,  when  he  had  land,  as  of  course  he  meant  to 

169 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

have.  He  would  send  his  parents  something  some- 
times—  not  regularly — lest  it  should  be  supposed  that 
he  bound  himself  to  continue  it,  which  he  might  not 
be  able  to  do.  For  of  course  he  should  have  shares 
like  other  people  in  these  railways  —  he  might  lose  a 
great  deal  of  money  by  them,  as  his  master  had  done  ; 
he  might  by  such  means  become  quite  poor  again ; 
and  then  how  cruel  it  would  seem  to  the  old  people  to 
stop  their  money !  He  would  send  them  something 
or  other  as  soon  as  he  knew  himself  what  he  was 
worth.  Well,  he  was  happy  to  say  he  had  a  generous 
mind,  and  did  his  duty  to  everybody  that  belonged 
to  him. 

Thus  he  sat  and  reflected  till  he  had  decided  all 
this  and  more  ;  he  then  peered  through  once  more  at 
his  treasures,  and  having  feasted  his  eyes  sufficiently, 
contrived  by  means  of  a  long  stick  to  pull  up  two  of 
the  gold  pieces.  They  were  as  large  as  silver  crowns. 
He  handled  them,  and  turned  them  over.  The  whole, 
now  he  had  part  in  his  power,  seemed  doubly  his 
own,  but  he  knew  that  gold  was  heavy ;  he  could 
count  upwards  of  twenty  of  these  bags ;  each,  for 
aught  he  knew,  might  contain  hundreds  of  gold  pieces  ; 
and  besides  that,  jewels  glittered  here  and  there,  which 
he  shrewdly  suspected  to  be  diamonds. 

He  heard  voices  at  a  distance,  and  hastened  to 
emerge  from  his  thicket  of  broom,  first  carefully  put- 
ting the  coins  and  a  jewel  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
Covetousness  grew  stronger  in  his  soul,  and  his  breath 
came  quick,  and  all  his  pulses  throbbed  with  anxiety, 
lest  he  should  not  be  able  to  secure  and  conceal  the 
whole  of  the  treasure  for  himself.  The  tourists  re- 

170 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

turned,  and  Richard,  as  he  followed  them  down  the 
mountain,  was  so  absorbed,  that  he  was  constantly 
treading  on  their  heels.  Afterwards,  when  he  waited 
at  table,  his  master  thought  the  air  must  have  intoxi- 
cated him,  for  he  handed  him  powdered  sugar  to  eat 
with  his  fish,  salad  with  his  gooseberry  tart,  and  set  a 
pat  of  butter  on  table  with  the  dessert.  Right  glad 
was  Richard  when  the  work  of  the  day  wras  over,  and 
he  could  retire  to  think  upon  his  good  fortune,  and 
examine  his  spoils.  They  had  been  a  very  cumber- 
some possession  to  him,  and  had  inspired  him  with 
an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  be  always  feeling  in  his 
pocket  to  ascertain  if  they  were  safe,  and  a  constant 
fear  lest  they  should  chink  together  and  be  heard. 

Now,  he  thought,  what  must  he  do?  Should  he 
leave  his  master's  service  at  once,  buy  some  boxes, 
and,  going  up  the  mountain  every  day  by  himself, 
bring  down  by  degrees  the  contents  of  that  little  cav- 
ern till  all  was  secured?  No,  that  would  be  a  sus- 
picious mode  of  proceeding  ;  people  would  think  the 
footman  was  mad,  or,  if  he  paid  for  what  he  wanted 
in  ancient  gold  coins,  they  would  suspect,  watch, 
discover,  and  either  betray  him  or  insist  upon  sharing 
the  spoils.  He  never  doubted  that  there  was  a  Lord 
of  the  Manor  in  those  parts,  and  if  so,  he  must  be  very 
secret,  as  of  course  these  riches  belonged  of  right 
to  him. 

No,  it  would  not  do  to  leave  his  master  at.  once  ;  far 
better  to  go  south  with  him  as  far  as  the  busy  city  of 

B ,  where  he  was  going  to  stay  with  a  very  learned 

old  gentleman,  a  friend  of  his,  who  had  a  large  col- 
lection of  curiosities  and  dusty  stones,  shells,  stuffed 
171 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

animals,  and  other  such  gear.  He  should  have  a 

great  deal  of  leisure  there,  and  B would  be  a 

likely  place  to  dispose  of  his  coins  in,  for  his  master 
would  be  busy  with  his  friend  tapping  stones  in  the 
country  with  tiny  hammers,  magnifying  sand,  and 
bottling  tadpoles  in  proof  spirits. 

Not  to  trouble  my  reader  with  accounts  of  how 
Richard  visited  his  treasures  again  by  night,  and  in 
coming  down  was  very  nearly  discovered ;  how  he 
went  again,  and  was  very  nearly  falling  over  a  preci- 
pice ;  how  he  forgot  his  duties,  was  disrespectful,  and 
recklessly  whistled  as  he  followed  his  master ;  how 
he  entertained  the  project  of  shortly  changing  his 
name,  and  conned  '  The  Peerage  and  Baronetage  of 
England '  to  find  a  grand  and  uncommon  one  ;  how 
conveniently  he  thought  this  plan  would  hide  him 
from  all  those  who  had  a  claim  upon  him  ;  how  he 
had  compunctions  on  this  head,  and  overcame  them 
with  the  thought  of  how  much  his  poor  relations  would 
expect  of  him  if  they  knew  about  his  riches ;  how  the 
landlady  declared  him  to  be  the  '  braggingest'  young 
man  she  had  ever  met  with  ;  how  he  carelessly  neg- 
lected his  master's  luggage  at  B ,  by  reason  where- 
of it  went  down  the  line  to  London,  and  thence  to 
Dover ;  and  how  he  spent  the  first  two  days  of  the 
visit  in  staring  out  of  the  hall  window,  —  I  pass  on  to 
say  that  never  was  there  an  old  gentleman  so  fond  of 
old  wood  carving,  old  stained  glass,  old  china,  old 
marbles,  old  mail,  old  books,  old  prints,  old  pictures, 
and  old  coins,  as  this  very  old  gentleman,  this  friend 
of  Richard's  master. 

On  the  third  day  Richard  slipped  out,  and  going 
172 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

into  a  back  street  soon  found  a  shop  that  he  thought 
suited  to  his  purpose.  Here,  after  a  little .  beating 
about  the  bush,  he  produced  his  coins  and  his  dia- 
mond, and  after  a  little  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the 
shopman,  received  eighteen  guineas  for  the  stone  and 
one  coin  —  far  less  than  they  were  worth  ;  but  the 
man  would  not  give  more. 

On  returning,  he  was  told  that  his  master  had  been 
ringing  for  him  ;  he  ran  upstairs  in  some  trepidation, 
and  found  the  two  old  gentlemen  examining  a  large 
cabinet  full  of  coins.  '  Richard,'  said  his  master,  '  I 
want  you  to  hold  this  tray.'  Richard  did  so,  and 
looked  down  on  its  contents.  '  Those,'  said  the  host 
to  his  friend,  '  are  early  English.'  He  lifted  up  another 
light  tray,  and  Richard  held  it  on  the  top  of  the  first. 
'  Now  then,  old  fellow,'  he  exclaimed,  '  this  is  some- 
thing to  be  proud  of  indeed  ;  Spanish  coins —  date  of 
the  Moors  —  all  rare  —  this  one,  unique  ;  I  gave  forty 
pounds  for  it.' 

'  Not  a  penny  too  much,'  said  Richard's  master ; 
'  and  these  two  coins  set  apart  —  are  they  Spanish 
too?' 

1  Moorish,  and  all  but  unique ;  they've  been  in  my 
family  for  generations.' 

Richard  looked  down,  and  his  heart  beat  so  loud 
that  he  wondered  they  did  not  hear  it ;  then  he  drew  a 
long  breath,  and  gazed  intently,  as  well  he  might,  for, 
reposing  on  cotton  wool,  side  by  side,  were  the  very 
counterparts  —  the  exact  fac-similes  —  of  the  great 
gold  pieces  he  got  out  of  the  cavern. 

'  What's  the  matter,  Richard  ?  '  said  his  master  ;  for 
Richard's  hands  shook,  and  he  stared  as  if  fascinated. 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

'  Nothing's  the  matter,  sir,'  replied  Richard,  with  a 
face  of  terror. 

'  I'll  tell  you  what,'  said  the  friend,  when  Richard 
had  been  dismissed,  '  there's  something  queer  about 
that  lad  ;  what  does  he  mean  by  turning  red  and  pale, 
and  breathing  as  hard  as  if  my  coins  had  knocked  the 
breath  out  of  his  body  ?  ' 

His  master  also  thought  it  queer  when  that  same 
evening  Richard  gave  him  warning,  and  added  that  he 
wished  to  leave  that  night,  for  his  brother's  wife  had 
written  to  say  that  her  husband  \vas  dangerously  ill, 
and  wished  to  see  him. 

His  master  was  vexed ;  but  being  an  easy  man,  he 
paid  Richard  his  wages,  and  let  him  go,  with  many 
kind  wishes  for  his  brother's  recovery. 

'  And  now,'  said  Richard,  '  I'll  be  a  gentleman. 
I've  left  my  old  clothes,  and  when  I'm  missed  my 
family  can  claim  them.  Honest  industry  is  the  best 
thing  after  all.  Let  them  do  for  themselves ;  they 
ought  to  be  above  troubling  me  ;  my  name  shall  be 
Mr.  Davenport  St.  Gilbert ;  I  shall  keep  myself  to 
myself,  for  I  want  nothing  of  them,  and  that  alone 
will  be  a  good  thing  for  them,  and  more  than  they 
ever  had  reason  to  expect.' 

He  then  went  to  a  number  of  shops,  and  soon  sup- 
plied himself  with  everything  that  he  thought  neces- 
sary to  constitute  him  a  gentleman  —  a  handsome  suit 
of  clothes,  studs,  a  new  hat,  a  cane,  and  lastly  a  pair 
nf  gloves,  which  he  had  been  very  near  forgetting; 
then  he  went  to  a  hotel,  ordered  supper  and  a  bed,  and 
by  seven  o'clock  the  next  morning  was  on  his  "way  to 
the  Cumberland  mountains.  The  image  of  that  moun- 
174 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

tain  was  always  present  to  his  imagination,  and  the 
thought  of  the  treasure  lying  there,  with  nothing  but 
a  little  bird  to  watch  it,  filled  him  with  a  secret,  sordid 
joy  ;  it  should  be  all  his  own  —  no  other  living  man 
should  touch  one  penny  of  it :  poor  Richard  ! 

He  went  to  an  inn,  ordered  a  good  dinner  and  a 
bottle  of  wine.  Alas  !  he  was  not  used  to  port  wine, 
and  he  thought  as  he  paid  for  all,  he  would  drink  all. 
He  did  so,  and  the  next  -day  a  racking  headache  made 
him  glad  to  lie  in  bed  till  noon.  He  staid  at  that 
place  another  night,  and,  unhappily  for  him,  repeated 
the  folly  of  the  previous  one.  It  was  not  till  the  fourth 

day  from  his  leaving  B that  he  reached  the  end  of 

his  journey,  and  stepping  out  of  a  post-chaise  found 
himself  at  the  foot  of  the  well-remembered  Cumber- 
land mountains. 

He  sauntered  to  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  began  to 
hurrah !  with  irrepressible  exultation.  He  thought 
himself  alone,  but  a  dry  cough  behind  him,  and  a 
finger  laid  on  his  shoulder,  undeceived  him.  He 
turned  round  hastily,  and  beheld  two  policemen. 

'  What's  your  business,  fellows?  '  he  exclaimed,  half 
angry,  half  afraid. 

'  You're  our  business,'  was  the  reply.  '  Thei-e's 
been  a  theft ;  you  must  come  back  with  us  to  B .' 

'  It's  a  lie,  a  base  lie  ;  it's  a  cruel  lie,'  cried  Richard, 
frantically  ;  '  there  was  no  theft  in  the  matter,  the  coin 
was  my  own.' 

'  Indeed !  Well,  young  man,  you  needn't  criminate 
yourself;  how  do  you  know  we  came  after  you  about 
a  coin  ?  —  it's  no  use  stamping,  nor  crying  either,  you 
must  come.' 

'75 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

The  mountains  and  the  lake  swam  before  Richard's 
eye,  as  the  two  policemen  took  him  between  them, 
and  walked  him  oft*  to  the  railway  station;  he  was 
frightened,  but  bewildered,  and  throughout  the  lon^ 
journey  he  preserved  a  dogged  silence,  till  at  last  the 

train  arrived  at  B ,  and  there  stood  his  master  and 

the  old  gentleman  waiting  for  him. 

'  This  is  the  young  fellow,  sir,  is'nt  it?'  inquired  the 
policemen  confidently. 

'  Yes,'  said  his  master,  in  a  tone  of  deep  regret ;  '  I 
grieve  to  say  it  is.' 

The  next  morning  he  was  examined  before  a  magis- 
trate, but  alas  !  during  the  night  he  had  reflected  that 
no  one  could  prove  his  having  stolen  the  coins  (for  on 
their  account  he  never  doubted  that  he  had  been 
arrested)  ;  he  had  also  reflected  that  to  tell  the  honest 
truth  about  them  was  most  certainly  to  lose  all ;  more- 
over, he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  nothing  worse 
than  a  month's  imprisonment  was  at  all  likely  to  befall 
him,  even  if  a  case  could  be  made  out  against  him. 
He  therefore  resolved  to  run  all  risks,  and  declare  that 
he  had  found  the  coins  and  the  jewels  in  his  father's 
potato-garden  ;  he  had  turned  them  up  with  a  hoe. 
How  the  time  passed  with  Richard  until  his  trial,  I 
do  not  know,  but  his  kind  old  master  visited  him 
frequently,  and  told  him  it  would  be  his  duty  to  give 
evidence  against  him. 

Richard,  however,  persisted  in  his  tale,  though  he 
became  quieter  and  more  fearful  as  the  assizes  drew 
near. 

At  length  the  eventful  day  of  trial  came  on ;  his 
turn  came  ;  he  felt  guilty,  though  not  of  the  crime 
176 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

imputed  to  him  ;  and  his  anxiety  increased  as  he  lis- 
tened to  the  evidence  brought  against  him.  The 
counsel  for  the  prosecution  stated  the  case  against  him 
thus : — 

The  prisoner,  on  the  22d  of  August,  arrived  with 
his  master  at  the  house  of  the  prosecutor ;  he  had 
often  been  there  before,  and  was  known  to  have 
acquaintances  there.  On  the  24th  he  was  present 
while  certain  valuable  coins  were  displayed  by  the 
prosecutor ;  he  was  observed  to  regard  them  with 
particular  attention  ;  that  same  evening  he  gave  warn- 
ing to  his  master,  giving  as  a  reason  that  his  brother's 
wife  had  written  to  him,  declaring  that  her  husband 
was  at  death's  door.  He  requested  to  be  paid  his 
wages  at  once,  alleging  that  he  had  but  five  shillings 
in  his  pocket.  He  took  his  leave  ;  and  in  the  evening 
of  the  following  day,  his  brother,  whose  employer 
was  travelling  that  way,  called  in  to  see  him  in  perfect 
health ;  and  on  being  told  of  the  letter  supposed  to 
have  been  received  from  his  wife,  replied  that  his 
wife,  being  a  Frenchwoman,  lady's-maid  in  the  fam- 
ily where  he  lived,  could  neither  read  nor  write  Eng- 
lish, and  that  Richard  knew  that  quite  well. 

The  day  after  this,  the  prosecutor  happened  to  ob- 
serve a  certain  scratched  appearance  about  the  key- 
holes of  two  of  his  cabinets  ;  he  opened  them  hastily, 
and  found  every  tray  gone,  with  all  their  contents  ;  in 
short,  the  whole  case  gutted.  Inquiries  were  instantlv 
set  on  foot,  and  plate  to  a  considerable  amount  was 
also  found  to  be  missing ;  thereupon,  the  servants 
being  examined,  Richard's  name  was  mentioned  by 
all  with  suspicion.  The  cook  deposed  that  during 

8*  177 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

dinner,  the  day  he  left,  Richard  had  inquired  con- 
cerning the  word  '  unique.'  '  Unique,'  said  the  ser- 
vants, '  means  that  no  one  has  got  such  a  coin  except 
master  ; '  to  which  he  replied,  '  If  that's  unique,  they 
are  no  more  unique  than  I  am,  and  that  I  could  prove 
to  the  present  company  if  I  chose.'  The  servants 
further  deposed,  that  looking  upon  this  as  an  idle- 
boast,  they  had  laughed  at  him,  and  dared  him  to 
produce  one,  and  at  last  he  had  said  that  perhaps 
he  might  before  he  took  his  leave  of  them. 

This  evidence  being  important,  the  police  had  been 
set  to  work,  and  had  discovered  a  fac-simile  of  the 
coin,  of  which  only  two  specimens  were  supposed 
to  be  extant,  exposed  for  sale  in  a  shop  window  ;  they 
had  also  discovered  that  he  had  entered  several  shops, 
and  spent  money  to  an  amount  greatly  exceeding  his 
wages.  The  recovered  coin  being  shown  to  the  pros- 
ecutor, he  challenged  it,  and  produced  a  written  de- 
scription, wherein  it  was  set  forth  that  these  ancient 
Spanish  coins  were  supposed  to  be  fresh  from  the 
Mint,  and  never  to  have  passed  into  circulation. 

The  prisoner,  on  being  arrested,  had  instantly  men- 
tioned these  coins,  and  declared  he  came  by  them 
honestly.  When  examined  before  a  magistrate,  he 
declared  that  he  had  dug  them  up  in  his  father's  po- 
tato-garden. Search  being  made,  another  coin  was 
found  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  On  being  told  that  the 
sharp  outline  of  the  coins  proved  that  they  had  not 
been  exposed  to  friction  or  damp,  he  added  that  he 
found  them  sealed  up  in  an  earthen  pot. 

On  being  asked  how  long  it  was  since  he  had  found 
them,  he  replied  that  it  was  while  he  lived  in  his  late 
178 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

master's  service.  On  being  reminded  by  that  gentle- 
man that  he  had  only  visited  his  parents  twice  during 
that  period,  and  that  the  first  time  they  were  paupers 
in  the  Union,  and  had  no  potato-garden,  he  replied 
that  it  was  the  second  time  ;  on  being  further  remind- 
ed that  during  his  second  visit  the  ground  was  covered 
with  a  deep  fall  of  snow,  he  refused  to  give  any 
answer. 

And  now  witnesses  were  called,  and  then  followed 
the  feeble  defence  of  his  own  counsel.  Richard  was 
bewildered,  but  he  perceived  that  the  circumstantial 
evidence  was  so  strong  against  him  that  nothing  but 
the  truth  could  save  him,  and  the  truth  no  man  knew. 
He  was  brought  in  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  seven 
years'  transportation. 

Alas  !  what  a  casting  down  of  his  dream  of  riches  ! 
what  a  bitter  disappointment  for  his  covetous  soul ! 
He  was  sent  back  to  prison,  and  there,  when  he  had 
duly  reflected  on  his  position,  he  determined  to  pur- 
chase freedom  by  discovering  the  whole  truth,  and 
thus  giving  up  his  monopoly  of  the  Moorish  gold. 

He  sent  for  his  master ;  he  looked  miserable,  and  as 
he  sat  on  the  bench  in  his  prison-dress,  with  his  face 
propped  on  his  hands,  he  felt  plainly  that  his  master 
pitied  him. 

The  old  gentleman  heard  him  to  the  end  and  made 
no  comment,  but  he  remained  so  long  silent  when 
the  tale  was  finished,  that  Richard  looked  up  sur- 
prised. '  Sir  ! '  he  exclaimed,  '  surely  you  believe  me 
now  ? ' 

'  Alas,  my  poor  fellow  ! '  said  his  master,  '  you  have 
179 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

told  so  many  falsehoods,  that  it  is  no  longer  in  my 
power  to  believe  on  the  testimony  of  your  lips,  but 
only  of  my  own  senses ;  and  this  last  story,  Richard, 
seems  to  me  the  wildest  of  all.  It  will  not  serve  you, 
nor  delay  your  sentence  one  hour.' 

'  Yes,  it  will  —  indeed  it  will.  O  sir,  sir,  try  me 
this  once,  and  go  and  look  behind  those  broom 
bushes.' 

'  Richard,  you  have  a  good  father  and  mother,  and 
good  sisters,  who  are  very,  very  poor,  —  if  you  had 
really  found  such  a  treasure,  you  would  have  con- 
trived to  send  something  to  them.' 

'I  —  I  forgot  them,  sir,'  faltered  Richard. 

'  No,  Richard,'  said  his  master,  with  a  sigh,  '  you 
are  a  bad  fellow,  I'm  afraid  ;  but  you're  not  so  bad  as 
that  comes  to.  You  have  deceived  me  so  often,  that 
I'm  not  to  be  taken  in  any  more.' 

Richard  protested,  but  his  master  would  not  believe 
his  tale,  and  was  about  to  take  leave  of  him,  when  a 
bustle  was  heard  outside  the  door,  and  his  master's  old 
friend  appeared  in  a  state  of  great  excitement.  He 
opened  both  hands,  and  in  the  palm  of  each  was  seen 
a  coin,  the  very  coins  that  had  been  missing.  The 
real  thieves  had  been  detected,  and,  with  very  little 
delay,  Richard  was  set  at  liberty. 

'  And  now,  sir,  said  he,  '  come  with  me  to  the  moun- 
tain, and  see  whether  I  spoke  the  truth.' 

His  master  wondered  greatly,  but  he  went.  They 
were  within  ten  miles  of  the  mountain,  when  a  tre- 
mendous storm  came  on  ;  the  floods  of  rain  and  peals 
of  thunder  drove  them  into  an  inn  for  shelter,  and 
180 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

there  they  staid  during  a  long  night  of  storm  and 
tempest. 

It  was  not  till  high  noon  that  that  terrible  storm 
subsided ;  then  as  soon  as  it  was  safe  to  go  abroad, 
Richard  and  his  master  set  off  on  their  mission. 
They  \vent  toiling  up  the  same  path  that  they  had 
pursued  before  ;  the  way  was  very  rugged,  for  stones 
and  earth  had  been  dislodged  by  the  storm. 

'  Richard,'  said  his  master,  '  we  are  nearly  at  the 
top  of  the  mountain  ;  surely  we  must  have  passed  the 
place.' 

They  came  down  again,  and  the  agitated  Richard 
looked  from  right  to  left ;  all  was  so  changed,  so  torn 
and  disfigured,  that  he  could  not  tell  where  he  was. 
The  tiny  streams  were  tumbling  torrents ;  the  road 
was  blocked  with  stones  and  rocks. 

'  Richard,'  his  master  said  again,  '  we  are  nearly  at 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  ;  surely  we  have  passed  the 
place.' 

His  master  went  down  to  the  inn.  Richard  con- 
tinued to  search :  for  three  weary  days  he  wandered 
up,  and  down,  and  about.  Whether  the  force  of  the 
storm  had  driven  rocks  down,  and  filled  up  that  little 
roofless  room,  or  whether  a  torrent  had  defaced  the 
place  and  concealed  it,  he  could  not  tell ;  but  certain  it 
is  he  never  found  it ;  and  from  that  day  to  this,  no 
man's  eyes  have  ever  been  gladdened  with  the  sight 
of  the  Moorish  gold. 

He  came  to  his  master  — '  Sir,'  said  he,  '  the  gold  is 
not  to  be  found,  but  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  time  to 
consider,  and  I  have  come  to  think  that  my  own  greed 
181 


THE    MOORISH    GOLD. 

has  brought  all  this  misery  on  me.  Here's  the  two 
coins  that  I  got  of  the  treasure  ;  let  them  go  to  my  re- 
lations, for  I'll  have  none  of  them,  but  try  to  win  back 
my  good  character,  for  the  loss  of  that  has  been  worse 
than  the  loss  of  this  gold.' 

182 


THE   ONE-EYED   SERVANT. 


THE    ONE-ETED    SERVANT. 

DO  you  see  those  two  pretty  cottages  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  Common?  How  bright  their  win- 
dows are,  and  how  prettily  the  vines  trail  over  them  ! 
A  year  ago  one  of  them  was  the  dirtiest  and  most 
forlorn-looking  place  you  can  imagine,  and  its  mistress 
the  most  untidy  woman. 

She  was  once  sitting  at  her  cottage  door,  with  her 
arms  folded,  as  if  she  were  deep  in  thought,  though,  to 
look  at  her  face,  one  would  not  have  supposed  she  was 
doing  more  than  idly  watching  the  swallows  as  they 
floated  about  in  the  hot,  clear  air.  Her  gown  was 
torn  and  shabby,  her  shoes  down  at  heel ;  .the  little 
curtain  in  her  casement,  which  had  once  been  fresh 
and  white,  had  a  great  rent  in'  it ;  and  altogether  she 
looked  poor  and  forlorn. 

She  sat  some  time,  gazing  across  the  common,  when 
all  on  a  sudden  she  heard  a  little  noise,  like  stitching, 
near  the  ground.  She  looked  down,  and  sitting  on 
the  border,  under  a  wall-flower  bush,  she  saw  the  fun- 
niest little  man  possible,  with  a  blue  coat,  a  yellow 
waistcoat,  and  red  boots  ;  he  had  got  a  small  shoe  on 
185 


THE    ONE-EYED    SERVANT. 

his  lap,  and  he  was  stitching  away  at  it  with  all  his 
might. 

'  Good  morning,  mistress  ! '  said  the  little  man.  '  A 
very  fine  day.  Why  may  you  be  looking  so  earnestly 
across  the  common  ? ' 

'  I  was  looking  at  my  neighbor's  cottage,'  said  the 
young  woman. 

'What!  Tom,  the  gardener's  wife?  —  little  Polly, 
she  used  to  be  called  ;  and  a  very  pretty  cottage  it  is, 
too  !  Looks  thriving,  doesn't  it?' 

'  She  was  always  lucky,'  said  Bella  (for  that  was 
the  young  wife's  name)  ;  '  and  her  husband  is  always 
good  to  her.' 

'  They  were  both  good  husbands  at  first,'  interrupted 
the  little  cobbler,  without  stopping.  '  Reach  me  my 
awl,  mistress,  will  you,  for  you  seem  to  have  nothing 
to  do  :  it  lies  close  by  your  foot.' 

'  Well,  I  can't  say  but  they  wrere  both  very  good 
husbands  at  first,'  replied  Bella,  reaching  the  awl  with 
a  sigh  ;  '  but  mine  has  changed  for  the  worse,  and  hers 
for  the  better  ;  and  then,  look  how  she  thrives.  Only 
to  tli ink  of  our  both  being  married  on  the  same  day  ; 
and  now  I've  nothing,  and  she  has  two  pigs,  and  a' — 

'  And  a  lot  of  flax  that  she  spun  in  the  winter,'  in- 
terrupted the  cobbler  ;  '  and  a  Sunday  gown,  as  good 
green  stuff  as  ever  was  seen,  and,  to  my  knowledge,  a 
handsome  silk  handkerchief  for  an  apron  ;  and  a  red 
waistcoat  for  her  goodman,  with  three  rows  of  blue 
glass  buttons,  and  a  flitch  of  bacon  in  the  chimney, 
and  a  rope  of  onions.' 

'  O,  she's  a  lucky  woman  ! '  exclaimed  Bella. 

'  Ay,  and  a  tea-tray,  with  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den  ll 
1 86 


THE    ONE-EYED    SERVANT. 

upon  it,'  continued  the  cobbler;  'and  a  fat  baby  in 
in  the  cradle.' 

'  O,  I'm  sure  I  don't  envy  her  that  last,'  said  Bella, 
pettishly.  '  I've  little  enough  lor  myself  and  my  hus- 
band, letting  alone  children.' 

'  Why,  mistress,  isn't  your  husband  in  work?'  asked 
the  cobbler. 

'  No  ;  he's  at  the  ale-house.' 

'  Why,  how's  that?  he  used  to  be  very  sober.  Can't 
he  get  work  ?  ' 

*  His  last  master  wouldn't  keep  him,  because  he  was 
so  shabby.' 

'  Humph  ! '  said  the  little  man.  '  He's  a  groom,  is 
he  not?  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  your  neighbor  op- 
posite thrives ;  but  no  wonder !  Well,  I've  nothing 
to  do  with  other  people's  secrets  ;  but  I  could  tell  you, 
only  I'm  busy,  and  must  go.' 

'  Could  tell  me  tv/tat?'  cried  the  young  wife.  '  O 
good  cobbler,  don't  go,  for  I've  nothing  to  do.  Pray 
tell  me  why  it's  no  wonder  that  she  should  thrive.' 

'  Well,'  said  he,  '  it's  no  business  of  mine,  you 
know,  but,  as  I  said  before,  it's  no  wonder  people 
thrive  who  have  a  servant  —  a  hard-working  one,  too 
—  who  is  always  helping  them.' 

'  A  servant ! '  repeated  Bella  ;  '  my  neighbor  has  a 
servant !  No  wonder,  then,  everything  looks  so  neat 
about  her  ;  but  I  never  saw  this  servant.  I  think  you 
must  be  mistaken  ;  besides,  how  could  she  afford  to 
pay  her  wages  ? ' 

'  She  has  a  servant,  I  say,'  repeated  the  cobbler  — 
a  one-eyed  servant  —  but  she  pays  her  no  wages,  to 
187 


THE    ONE-EYED    SERVANT. 

my  certain  knowledge.  Well,  good  morning,  mis- 
tress, I  must  go.' 

"  Do  stop  one  minute,  cried  Bella,  urgently  — 
'  where  did  she  get  this  servant? ' 

'  O,  I  don't  know,'  said  the  cobbler  ;  '  servants  are 
plentiful  enough ;  and  Polly  uses  hers  well,  I  can  tell 
you.' 

'  And  what  does  she  do  for  her  ?  ' 

'  Do  for  her  ?  Why,  all  sorts  of  things  —  I  think 
she's  the  cause  of  her  prosperity.  To  my  knowledge 
she  never  refuses  to  do  anything  —  keeps  Tom's  and 
Polly's  clothes  in  beautiful  order,  and  the  baby's.' 

'  Dear  me ! '  said  Bella,  in  an  envious  tone,  and 
holding  up  both  her  hands ;  '  well,  she  is  a  lucky 
woman,  and  I  always  said  so.  She  takes  good  care 
/  shall  never  see  her  servant.  What  sort  of  a  servant 
is  she,  and  how  came  she  to  have  only  one  eye  ? ' 

'  It  runs  in  her  family,'  replied  the  cobbler,  stitching 
busily,  '  they  are  all  so  —  one  eye  apiece ;  yet  they 
make  a  very  good  use  of  it,  and  Polly's  servant  has 
four  cousins  who  are  blind  —  stone-blind  ;  no  eyes  at 
all ;  and  they  sometimes  come  and  help  her.  I've 
seen  them  in  the  cottage  myself,  and  that's  how  Polly 
gets  a  good  deal  of  her  money.  They  work  for  her, 
and  she  takes  what  they  make  to  market,  and  buys  all 
those  handsome  things.' 

'  Only  think,'  said  Bella,  almost  ready  to  cry  with 
vexation,  '  and  I've  not  got  a  soul  to  do  anything  for 
me;  how  hard  it  is ! '  and  she  took  up  her  apron  to 
wipe  away  her  tears. 

The  cobbler  looked  attentively  at  her.  '  Well,  you 
1 88 


THE    ONE-EYED    SERVANT. 

are  to  be  pitied,  certainly,'  he  said,  '  and  if  I  were  not 
in  such  a  hurry '  — 

'  O,  do  go  on,  pray  —  were  you  going  to  say  you 
could  help  me  ?  I've  heard  that  your  people  are  fond 
of  curds  and  whey,  and  fresh  gooseberry  syllabub. 
Now,  if  you  would  help  me,  trust  me  that  there 
should  be  the  most  beautiful  curds  and  whey  set  every 
night  for  you  on  the  hearth  ;  and  nobody  should  ever 
look  when  you  went  and  came.' 

'  Why,  you  see,'  said  the  cobbler,  hesitating,  '  my 
people  are  extremely  particular  about — in  short, 
about  —  cleanliness,  mistress;  and  your  house  is  not 
what  one  would  call  very  clean.  No  offence,  I  hope?  ' 

Bella  blushed  deeply.  '  Well,  but  it  should  be  al- 
ways clean  if  you  would  —  every  day  of  my  life  I 
would  wash  the  floor,  and  sand  it,  and  the  hearth 
should  be  whitewashed  as  white  as  snow,  and  the 
windows  cleaned.' 

'  Well,'  said  the  cobbler,  seeming  to  consider,  '  well, 
then,  I  should  not  wonder  if  I  could  meet  with  a  one- 
eyed  servant  for  you,  like  your  neighbor's ;  but  it  may 
be  several  days  before  I  can  ;  and  mind,  mistress,  I'm 
to  have  a  dish  of  curds.' 

'  Yes,  and  some  whipped  cream,  too,'  replied  Bella, 
full  of  joy. 

The  cobbler  then  took  up  all  his  tools,  wrapped 
them  in  his  leather  apron,  walked  behind  the  wall- 
flower, and  disappeared. 

Bella  was  so  delighted,  she  could  not  sleep  that 
night  for  joy.  Her  husband  scarcely  knew  the  house, 
she  had  made  it  so  bright  and  clean  ;  and  by  night 
hshe  had  washed  the  curtain,  cleaned  the  window, 

189 


THE    ONE-EYED    SERVANT. 

rubbed  the  fire-irons,  sanded  the  floor,  and  set  a  great 
jug  of  hawthorn  in  blossom  on  the  hearth. 

The  next  morning  Bella  kept  a  sharp  look-out  both 
for  the  tiny  cobbler  and  on  her  neighbor's  house,  to 
see  whether  she  could  possibly  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
one-eyed  servant.  But,  no  —  nothing  could  she  see 
but  her  neighbor  sitting  on  her  rocking-chair,  with 
her  baby  on  her  knee,  working. 

At  last,  when  she  was  quite  tired,  she  heard  the 
voice  of  the  cobbler  outside.  She  ran  to  the  door, 
and  cried  out, — 

*  O,  do,  pray,  come  in,  sir  ;  only  look  at  my  house  ! ' 

'  Really,'  said  the  cobbler,  looking  round,  '  I  declare 
I  should  hardly  have  known  it  —  the  sun  can  shine 
brightly  now  through  the  clear  glass ;  and  what  a 
sweet  smell  of  hawthorn  ! ' 

'Well,  and  my  one-eyed  servant?'  asked  Bella  — 
'  you  remember,  I  hope,  that  I  can't  pay  her  any 
wages  —  have  you  met  with  one  that  will  come?' 

'  All's  right,'  replied  the  little  man,  nodding.  '  I've 
got  her  with  me.' 

'  Got  her  with  you  ? '  repeated  Bella,  looking  round  ; 
'  I  see  nobody.' 

'  Look,  here  she  is ! '  said  the  cobbler,  holding  up 
something  in  his  hand. 

Would  you  believe  it?  the  one-eyed  servant  was 
nothing  but  a  Needle. 

190 


THE    GOLDEN  OPPORTUNITY. 

NOT  many  things  have  happened  to  me   in  the 
course  of  my  life  which  can  be  called  events. 
One  great  event,  as  I  then  thought  it,  happened  when 
I  was  eight  years  old.  «  On  that  birthday  I  first  pos- 
sessed a  piece  of  gold. 

How  well  I  remember  the  occasion  !  I  had  a  holi- 
day, and  was  reading  aloud  to  my  mother.  The  book 
was  the  '  Life  of  Howard,  the  philanthropist.'  I  was 
interested  in  it,  though  the  style  was  considerably 
above  my  comprehension ;  at  last  I  came  to  the  fol- 
lowing sentence,  which  I  could  make  nothing  of:  '  He 
could  not  let  slip  such  a  golden  opportunity  for  doing 
good.' 

'  What  is  a  golden  opportunity  ? '  I  inquired. 
'  It  means  a  very  good  opportunity.' 
'  But,  mamma,  why  do  they  call  it  golden  ? ' 
My  mamma  smiled,  and  said  it  was  a  figurative  ex- 
pression :  '  Gold  is  very  valuable  and  very  uncommon  ; 
this  opportunity  was  a  very  valuable  and  uncommon 
one  ;  we  can  express  that  in  one  word,  by  calling  it  a 
golden  opportunity.' 

I  pondered  upon  the  information  for  some  time,  and 
191 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

then  made  a  reply  to  the  effect,  that  all  the  golden  op- 
portunities seemed  to  happen  to  very  rich  people,  or 
people  who  lived  a  long  time  ago,  or  else  to  great 
men,  whose  lives  wre  can  read  in  books  —  very  great 
men,  such  as  Wilberforce  and  Howard ;  but  they 
never  happened  to  real  people,  whom  we  could  see 
every  day,  nor  to  children.' 

'To  children  like  you,  Orris?'  said  my  mother; 
'  why,  what  kind  of  a  golden  opportunity  are  you 
wishing  for  just  now?' 

My  reply  was  childish  enough. 

'  If  I  were  a  great  man  I  should  like  to  sail  after  the 
slave  ships,  fight  them,  and  take  back  the  poor  slaves 
to  their  own  country.  Or  I  should  like  to  do  some- 
thing like  what  Quintus  Curtius  did.  Not  exactly  like 
that ;  because  you  know,  mamma,  if  I  were  to  jump 
into  a  gulf,  that  would  not  really  make  it  close.' 

'  No,'  said  my  mother,  '  it  would  not.' 

'  And  besides,'  I  reasoned, '  if  it  had  closed,  I  should 
never  have  known  of  the  good  I  had  done,  because  I 
should  have  been  killed.' 

'  Certainly,'  said  my  mother ;  I  saw  her  smile,  and 
thinking  it  was  at  the  folly  of  my  last  wish,  hastened 
to  bring  forward  a  wiser  one. 

'  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  a  great  lady,  and  then 
if  there  had  been  a  bad  harvest,  and  all  the  poor  peo- 
ple on  my  lord's  land  were  nearly  starving,  I  should 
like  to  come  down  to  them  with  a  purse  full  of  money, 
and  divide  it  among  them.  But  you  see,  mamma,  I 
have  no  golden  opportunities.' 

'  My  dear,  we  all  have  some  opportunities  for  doing 
192 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

good,  and  they  are  golden,  or  not,  according  to  the 
use  we  make  of  them.' 

'  But,  mamma,  we  cannot  get  people  released  out 
of  prison,  as  Howard  did.' 

'  No  ;  but  sometimes,  by  instructing  them  in  their 
duty,  by  providing  them  with  work,  so  that  they  shall 
earn  bread  enough,  and  not  be  tempted,  and  driven 
by  hunger  to  steal,  we  can  prevent  some  people  from 
being  ever  put  in  prison.' 

My  mother  continued  to  explain  that  those  who 
really  desired  to  do  good  never  wanted  opportunities, 
and  that  the  difference  between  Howard  and  other 
people  was  more  in  perseverance  and  earnestness  than 
in  circumstances.  But  I  do  not  profess  to  remember 
much  of  what  she  said  ;  I  only  know  that,  very  short- 
ly, she  took  me  into  my  grandfather's  study,  and  sitting 
down,  began  busily  to  mend  a  heap  of  pens  which 
lay  beside  him  on  the  table. 

He  was  correcting  proof-sheets,  and,  knowing  that 
I  must  not  talk,  I  stood  awhile  very  quietly  watching 
him. 

Presently  I  saw  him  mark  out  a  letter  in  the  page, 
make  a  long  stroke  in  the  margin,  and  write  a  letter 
d  beside  it. 

Curiosity  was  too  much  for  my  prudence  ;  I  could 
not  help  saying  — 

'  Grandpapa,  what  did  you  write  that  letter  d  for  ? ' 

'  There  was  a  letter  too  much  in  the  word,  child,' 
he  replied  ;  '  /spell  "  potatoes"  with  only  one  /,  and 
want  the  printer  to  put  out  the  second.' 

'  Then  d  stands  for  don't,  I  suppose,  was  my  next 
observation  ;  '  it  means  don't  put  it  in.' 

9  193 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

'  Yes,  child,  yes  ;  something  like  that.' 

If  it  had  not  been  my  birthday  I  should  not  have 
had  courage  to  interrupt  him  again.  '  But,  grand- 
papa, "  do "  begins  with  d,  so  how  is  the  printer  to 
know  whether  you  mean  "do,"  or  "don't?" 

My  grandfather  said  '  Pshaw  ! '  turned  short  round 
upon  my  mother,  and  asked  her  if  she  had  heard  what 
I  said? 

My  mother  admitted  that  it  was  a  childish  observa- 
tion. 

'  Childish  ! '  repeated  my  grandfather,  '  childish  ! 
she'll  never  be  anything  but  a  child  —  never  ;  she  has 
no  reasoning  faculties  at  all.'  When  my  grandfather 
was  displeased  with  me,  he  never  scolded  me  for  the 
fault  of  the  moment,  but  inveighed  against  me  in  the 
piece,  as  a  draper  would  say. 

'  Did  you  ever  talk  nonsense  at  her  age  —  ever  play 
with  a  penny  doll,  and  sing  to  a  kitten?  I  should 
think  not.' 

'  I  was  of  a  different  disposition,'  said  my  mother, 
gently. 

'  Ay,'  said  the  old  man,  '  that  you  were.  Why,  I 
wouldn't  trust  this  child,  as  I  trusted  you,  for  the 
world ;  you  were  quite  a  little  woman,  could  pay 
bills,  or  take  charge  of  keys ;  but  this  child  has  no 
discretion  —  no  head-piece.  She  says  things  that  are 
wide  of  the  mark.  She's  —  well,  my  dear,  I  didn't 
mean  to  vex  you  —  she's  a  nice  child  enough,  but, 
bless  me,  she  never  thinks,  and  never  reasons  about 
any  thing.' 

He  was  mistaken.  I  was  thinking  and  reasoning  at 
that  moment.  I  was  thinking  how  delightful  it  would 
194 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

be  if  I  might  have  the  cellar  keys,  and  all  the  other 
keys  hanging  to  my  side,  so  that  every  one  might  see 
that  I  was  trusted  with  them ;  and  I  was  reasoning, 
that  perhaps  my  mother  had  behaved  like  a  little 
woman,  because  she  was  treated  like  one. 

'  My  dear,  I  did  not  mean  that  she  was  worse  than 
many  other  children,'  repeated  my  grandfather  ;  '  come 
here,  child,  and  I'll  kiss  you.' 

My  mother  pleaded,  by  way  of  apology  for  me, — 
'  She  has  a  very  good  memory.' 

'  Memory  !  ay,  there's  another  disadvantage.  She 
remembers  everything ;  she's  a  mere  parrot.  Why, 
when  you,  at  her  age,  wanted  a  punishment,  if  I  set 
you  twenty  lines  of  poetry,  they'd  keep  you  quiet  for 
an  hour.  Set  this  child  eighty  —  knows  'em  directly, 
and  there's  time  wasted  in  hearing  her  say  'em  into 
the  bargain.' 

'  I  hope  she  will  become  more  thoughtful  as  she 
grows  older,'  said  my  mother,  gently. 

'  I  hope  she  will ;  there's  room  for  improvement. 
Come  and  sit  on  my  knee,  child.  So  this  is  your  birth- 
day. Well,  I  suppose  I  must  give  you  some  present 
or  other.  Leave  the  child  with  me,  my  dear,  I'll  take 
care  of  her.  But  I  won't  detain  you,  for  the  proofs 
are  all  ready.  Open  the  door  for  your  mother,  Orris. 
Ah  !  you'll  never  be  anything  like  her  —  never.' 

I  did  as  he  desired,  and  then  my  grandfather,  look- 
ing at  me  \vith  comical  gravity,  took  out  a  leathern 
purse,  and  dived  with  his  fingers  among  the  contents. 
'  When  I  was  a  little  boy,  as  old  as  you  are,  nobody 
gave  me  any  money.' 

Encouraged  by  his  returning  good  humor,  I  drew 
'95 


THE    GOLDEN   OPPORTUNITY. 

closer  and  peeped  into  the  purse.  There  were  as 
many  as  six  or  eight  sovereigns  in  it.  I  thought  what 
a  rich  man  my  grandfather  was,  and  when  he  took  out 
a  small  coin  and  laid  it  on  my  palm,  I  could  scarcely 
believe  it  was  for  me. 

'  Do  you  know  what  that  is,  child?' 

'  A  half-sovereign,  grandpapa.' 

'  Well,  do  you  think  you  could  spend  it?' 

'  O,  yes,  grandpapa.' 

*  "  O,  yes  !  "  and  she  opens  her  eyes  !  Ah,  child,  child  ! 
that  money  was  worth  ten  shillings  when  it  was  in  my 
purse,  and  I  wouldn't  give  sixpence  for  anything  it 
will  buy,  now  it  has  once  touched  your  little  fingers.' 

'  Did  you  give  it  me  to  spend  exactly  as  I  like, 
grandpapa  ? ' 

'To  be  sure,  child  —  there,  take  it  —  it's  worth 
nothing  to  you,  my  dear.' 

'  Nothing  to  me  !  The  half-sovereign  worth  nothing 
to  me  !  why,  grandpapa  ? ' 

'  Nothing  worth  mentioning ;  you  have  no  real 
wants ;  you  have  clothes,  food,  and  shelter,  without 
this  half-sovereign.' 

'  O,  yes  ;  but,  grandpapa,  I  think  it  must  be  worth 
ten  times  as  much  to  me  as  to  you  ;  I  have  only  this 
one,  and  you  have  quantities ;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
you  have  thirty  or  forty  half-sovereigns,  and  a  great 
many  shillings  and  half-crowns  besides,  to  spend  every 
year.' 

'  I  shouldn't  wonder  ! ' 

'  And   I   have   only  one.     I  can't  think,  grandpapa, 
what  you  do  with  all  your  money ;  if  I  had  it  I  would 
buy  so  many  delightful  things  with  it.' 
196 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

4  No  doubt !  kaleidoscopes,  and  magic  lanterns,  and 
all  sorts  of  trash.  But,  unfortunately,  you  have  not 
got  it ;  you  have  only  one  half-sovereign  to  throw 
away.' 

'  But  perhaps  I  shall  not  throw  it  away ;  perhaps  I 
#hall  try  and  do  some  good  with  it.' 

'  Do  some  good  with  it !  Bless  you,  my  dear,  if  you 
do  but  try  to  do  some  good  with  it,  I  shall  not  call  it 
thrown  away.' 

I  then  related  what  I  had  been  reading,  and  had 
nearly  concluded  when  the  housemaid  came  in.  She 
laid  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper  by  his  desk,  and  with 
it  a  shilling  and  a  penny,  saying,  '  There's  the  change, 
sir,  out  of  your  shoemaker's  bill.' 

My  grandfather  took  it  up,  looked  at  it,  and  re- 
marked that  the  shilling  was  a  new  one.  Then  with 
a  generosity  which  I  really  am  at  a  loss  to  account 
for,  he  actually,  and  on  the  spot,  gave  me  both  the 
shilling  and  the  penny. 

There  they  lay  in  the  palm  of  my  hand,  gold,  silver, 
and  copper.  He  then  gave  me  another  kiss,  and 
abruptly  dismissed  me,  saying  that  he  had  more  writ- 
ing to  do  ;  and  I  walked  along  the  little  passage  with 
an  exultation  of  heart  that  a  queen  might  have  envied, 
to  show  this  unheard-of  wealth  to  my  mother. 

I  remember  laying  the  three  coins  upon  a  little  table, 
and  dancing  round  it,  singing,  '  There's  a  golden  op- 
portunity !  and  there's  a  silver  opportunity  !  and  there's 
a  copper  opportunity ! '  and  having  continued  this 
exercise  till  I  was  quite  tired,  I  spent  the  rest  of  the 
morning  in  making  three  little  silk  bags,  one  for  each 
197 


THE    GOLDEN'    OPPORTUNITY. 

of  them,  previously   rubbing   the   penny  with    sand- 
paper, to  make  it  bright  and  clean. 

Visions  and  dreams  floated  through  my  brain  as  to 
the  good  I  was  to  do  with  this  property.  They  were 
vainglorious  but  not  selfish  ;  but  they  were  none  of 
them  fulfilled,  and  need  not  be  recorded.  The  next 
day,  just  as  my  lessons  were  finished,  papa  came  in 
with  his  hat  and  stick  in  his  hand  ;  he  was  going  to 
walk  to  the  town,  and  offered  to  take  me  with  him. 

It  was  always  a  treat  to  walk  out  with  my  father, 
especially  when  he  went  to  the  town.  I  liked  to  look 
in  at  the  shop  windows,  and  admire  their  various 
contents. 

To  the  town  therefore  we  went.  My  father  was 
going  to  the  Mechanics'  Institute,  and  could  not  take 
me  in  with  him,  but  there  was  a  certain  basket-maker, 
with  whose  wife  I  was  often  left  on  these  occasions. 
To  this  good  woman  he  brought  me,  and  went  away, 
promising  not  to  be  long. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  whoever  "you  may  be,  I  be- 
seech you  judge  not  too  harshly  of  me  ;  remember  I 
was  but  a  child,  and  it  is  certain  that  if  you  are  not  a 
child  yourself,  there  was  a  time  when  you  were  one. 
Next  door  to  the  basket-maker's  there  was  a  toy-shop, 
and  in  its  window  I  espied  several  new  and  very  hand- 
some toys. 

'  Mr.  Miller's  window  looks  uncommon  gay,'  said 
the  old  basket-maker,  observing  the  direction  of  my 
eyes. 

'  Uncommon,'  repeated  his  wife  ;  '  those  new  gim- 
cracks  from  London  is  handsome  sure-ly.' 

1 08 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

*  Wife,'  said  the  old  man, '  there's  no  harm  in  missy's 
just  taking  a  look  at  'em  —  eh?' 

'  Not  a  bit  in  the  world,'  bless  her,'  said  the  old 
woman ;  '  I  know  she'll  go  no  further,  and  come  back 
here  when  she's  looked  'em  over.' 

'  O,  yes,  indeed  I  will.     Mrs.  Stebbs,  may  I  go  ? ' 

The  old  woman  nodded  assent,  and  I  was  soon  be- 
fore the  window. 

Splendid  visions  !  O,  the  enviable  position  of  Mr. 
Miller !  How  wonderful  that  he  was  not  always 
playing  with  his  toys,  showing  himself  his  magic  lan- 
terns, setting  out  his  puzzles,  and  winding  up  his  mu- 
sical boxes  !  Still  more  wonderful,  that  he  could  bear 
to  part  with  them  for  mere  money  ! 

I  was  lost  in  admiration  when  Mr.  Miller's  voice 
made  me  start.  '  Wouldn't  you  like  to  step  inside, 
miss  ? ' 

He  said  this  so  affably  that  I  felt  myself  quite  wel- 
come, and  was  beguiled  into  entering.  In  an  instant 
he  was  behind  the  counter.  '  What  is  the  little  article 
I  can  have  the  pleasure,  miss '  — 

'  O  ! '  I  replied,  blushing  deeply,  '  I  do  not  want  to 
buy  anything  this  morning,  Mr.  Miller.' 

'  Indeed,  miss,  that's  rather  a  pity.  I'm  sorry,  miss, 
I  confess,  on  your  account.  I  should  like  to  have 
served  you,  while  I  have  goods  about  me  that  I'm 
proud  of.  In  a  week  or  two,'  and  he  looked  pomp- 
ously about  him,  '  I  should  say  in  less  time  than  that, 
they'll  all  be  cleared  out.' 

'^What !  will  they  all  be  gone  —  all  sold  ? '  I  ex- 
claimed in  dismay. 

'Just  so,  miss  ;  such  is  the  appreciation  of  the  pub- 
199 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

lie  ; '  and  he  carelessly  took  up  a  little  cedar  stick  and 
played  '  The  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland'  on  the  glass  keys 
of  a  plaything  piano. 

'  This,'  he  observed,  coolly  throwing  down  the  stick 
and  taking  up  an  accordion,  '  this  delightful  little  in- 
strument is  half-a-guinea  —  equal  to  the  finest  notes 
of  the  hautboy.'  He  drew  it  out,  and  in  his  skilful 
hands  it  '  discoursed '  music,  which  I  thought  the  most 
excellent  I  had  ever  heard. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  minutely  describing  my  temp- 
tation ?  In  ten  minutes  the  accordion  was  folded  up 
in  silver  paper,  and  I  had  parted  with  my  cherished 
half-sovereign. 

As  WTC  walked  home,  I  enlarged  on  the  delight  I 
should  have  in  playing  on  my  accordion.  '  It  is  so 
easy,  papa ;  you  have  only  to  draw  it  in  and  out ;  I 
can  even  play  it  at  dinner-time,  if  you  like,  between 
the  meat  and  the  puddings.  You  know  the  queen 
has  a  band,  papa,  to  play  while  she  dines,  and  so  can 
you.' 

My  father  abruptly  declined  this  liberal  offer ;  so 
did  my  grandfather,  when  I  repeated  it  to  him,  but  I 
was  relieved  to  find  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  sur- 
prised at  the  way  in  which  I  had  spent  his  present. 
This,  however,  did  not  prevent  my  feeling  sundry 
twinges  of  regret  when  I  remembered  all  my  good  in- 
tentions. But,  alas !  my  accordion  soon  cost  me  tears 
of  bitter  disappointment.  Whether  from  its  fault,  or 
my  own,  I  could  not  tell,  but  draw  it  out,  and  twist  it 
about  as  I  might,  it  would  not  play  '  The  Blue  Bfells 
of  Scotland,'  or  any  other  of  my  favorite  tunes.  It 
was  just  like  the  piano,  every  tune  must  be  learned ; 

200 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

there  was  no  music  inside  which  only  wanted  wind- 
ing out  of  it,  as  you  wind  the  tunes  out  of  barrel 
organs. 

My  mother,  coming  in  some  time  during  that  melan- 
choly afternoon,  found  me  sitting  at  the  foot  of  my 
little  bed  holding  my  accordion,  and  shedding  over  it 
some  of  the  most  bitter  tears  that  shame  and  repent- 
ance had  yet  wrung  from  me. 

She  looked  astonished,  and  asked,  '  What  is  the 
matter,  my  child  ? ' 

'  O,  mamma,'  I  replied,  as  well  as  my  sobs  would  let 
me,  '  I  have  bought  this  thing  which  won't  play,  and 
I  have  given  Mr.  Miller  my  golden  opportunity.' 

'  What,  have  you  spent  your  half-sovereign  ?  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  put  poor  little  Patty  Mor- 
gan to  school  with  it,  and  give  her  a  new  frock  and 
tippet.' 

My  tears  fell  afresh  at  this,  and  I  thought  how 
pretty  little  Patty  would  have  looked  in  the  new  frock, 
and  that  I  should  have  put  it  on  for  her  myself.  My 
mother  sat  down  by  me,  took  away  the  toy,  and  dried 
my  eyes.  '  Now  you  see,  my  child,'  she  observed, 
'  one  great  difference  between  those  who  are  earnestly 
desirous  to  do  good,  and  those  who  only  wish  it 
lightly.  You  had  what  you  \vere  wishing  for  —  a 
good  opportunity ;  for  a  child  like  you,  an  unusual 
opportunity  for  doing  good.  You  had  the  means  of 
putting  a  poor  little  orphan  to  school  for  one  whole 
year  —  think  of  that,  Orris!  In  one  whole  year  she 
might  have  learned  a  great  deal  about  the  God  who 
made  her,  and  who  gave  His  Son  to  die  for  her,  and 
His  Spirit  to  make  her  holy.  One  whole  year  would 
9*  201 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

have  gone  a  great  way  towards  teaching  her  to  read 
the  Bible  ;  in  one  year  she  might  have  learned  a  great 
many  hymns,  and  a  great  many  useful  things,  which 
would  have  been  of  service  to  her  when  she  was  old 
enough  to  get  her  own  living.  And  for  what  have 
you  thrown  all  this  good  from  you  and  from  her?' 

'  I  am  very,  very  sorry.  I  did  not  mean  to  buy  the 
accordion :  I  forgot,  when  I  heard  Mr.  Miller  playing 
upon  it,  that  I  had  better  not  listen  ;  and  I  never  re- 
membered what  I  had  done  till  it  was  mine,  and 
folded  up  in  paper.' 

'  You  forgot  till  it  was  too  late  ? ' 

'  Yes,  mamma ;  but,  O,  I  am  so  sorry.  I  am  sure 
I  shall  never  do  so  any  more.' 

'  Do  not  say  so,  my  child ;  I  fear  it  will  happen 
again,  many,  many  times.' 

'  Many  times  ?  O  mamma  !  I  will  never  go  into 
Mr.  Miller's  shop  again.' 

'  My  dear  child,  do  you  think  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  that  can  tempt  you  but  Mr.  Miller's  shop  ? ' 

'  Even  if  I  go  there,'  I  sobbed,  in  the  bitterness  of 
my  sorrow,  '  it  will  not  matter  now,  for  I  have  now  no 
half-sovereign  left  to  spend ;  but  if  I  had  another,  and 
he  were  to  show  me  the  most  beautiful  toys  in  the 
world,  I  would  not  buy  them  after  this  —  not  if  they 
would  play  of  themselves.' 

'  My  dear,  that  may  be  true ;  you,  perhaps,  would 
not  be  tempted  again  when  you  were  on  your  guard  ; 
but  you  know,  Orris,  you  do  not  wish  for  another  toy 
of  that  kind.  Are  there  no  temptations  against  which 
you  are  not  on  your  guard  ? ' 

I  thought  my  mother  spoke  in  a  tone  of  sorrow.  I 
202 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

knew  she  lamented  my  volatile  disposition ;  and  cry- 
ing afresh,  I  said  to  her,  '  O,  mamma,  do  you  think 
that  all  my  life  I  shall  never  do  any  good  at  all? ' 

'  If  you  try  in  your  own  strength,  I  scarcely  think 
you  will.  Certainly  you  will  do  no  good  which  will 
be  acceptable  to  God.' 

'  Did  I  try  in  my  own  strength  to-day  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  think,  Orris  ?  I  leave  it  to  you  to 
decide.' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  did.' 

'  I  am  afraid  so  too  ;  but  you  must  not  cry  and  sob 
in  this  way.  Let  this  morning's  experience  show  you 
how  open  you  are  to  temptation.  To  let  it  make  you 
think  you  shall  never  yield  to  such  temptation  again 
is  the  worst  thing  you  can  do  ;  you  need  help  from 
above  ;  seek  it,  my  dear  child,  otherwise  all  your  good 
resolutions  will  come  to  nothing.' 

'  And  if  I  do  seek  it,  mamma  ?  ' 

'  Then,  weak  as  you  are,  you  will  certainly  be  able 
to  accomplish  something.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to 
take  away  your  volatile  disposition,  and  make  you 
thoughtful  and  steady ;  but  "  with  God  all  things  are 
possible." ' 

'It  is  a  great  pity  that  at  the  very  moment  when  I 
want  to  think  about  right  things,  and  good  things,  all 
sorts  of  nonsense  comes  into  my  head.  Grandpapa 
says  I  am  just  like  a  whirligig ;  and,  besides,  that  I 
can  never  help  laughing  when  I  ought  not,  and  I  am 
always  having  lessons  set  me  for  running  about  and 
making  such  a  noise  when  baby  is  asleep.' 

'  My  dear  child,  you  must  not  be  discontented, 
these  are  certainly  disadvantages ;  they  will  give  you 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  myself,  too  ;  but  you  have 
one  advantage  that  all  children  are  not  blessed  with.' 

'  What  is  that,  mamma  ?  ' 

'  There  are  times  when  you  sincerely  wish  to  do 
good.' 

'  Yes,  I  think  I  really  do,  mamma  ;  I  had  better 
fold  up  this  thing,  and  put  it  away,  for  it  only  vexes 
me  to  see  ,it.  I  am  sorry  I  have  lost  my  golden 
opportunity.' 

And  so,  not  without  tears,  the  toy  was  put  away. 
The  silver  and  the  copper  remained,  but  there  was  an 
end  of  my  golden  opportunity. 

My  birth-day  had  been  gone  by  a  week,  and  still 
the  shilling  and  the  penny  lay  folded  in  their  silken 
shrines. 

I  had  quite  recovered  my  spirits,  and  was  beginning 
to  think  how  I  should  spend  them,  particularly  the 
shilling,  for  I  scarcely  thought  any  good  could  be 
done  with  such  a  small  sum  as  a  penny.  Now  there 
was  a  poor  Irish  boy  in  our  neighborhood,  who  had 
come  with  the  reapers,  and  been  left  behind  with  a 
hurt  in  his  leg. 

My  mother  had  often  been  to  see  him.  While  he 
was  confined  to  his  bed,  she  went  regularly  to  read 
with  him,  and  sometimes  she  sent  me  \vith  our  nurse- 
maid to  take  him  a  dinner. 

He  was  now  much  better,  and  could  get  about  a 
little.  To  my  mother's  surprise  she  found  that  he 
could  read  perfectly  well.  One  day,  when  she  met 
him,  he  '  thanked  her  honor  for  all  favors,'  and  said  he 
should  soon  be  well  enough  to  return  to  old  Ireland. 

As  we  walked  home  one  day  my  mother  said  to 
204 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

me,  '  Orris,  if  you  like,  I  will  tell  you  of  a  good  way 
to  spend  your  shilling.  You  may  buy  poor  Tim  a 
Testament.' 

I  was  delighted,  and  gave  my  immediate  assent. 

'  Well,  then,'  said  my  mother,  '  that  is  settled.  I 
should  have  given  one  myself  to  Tim,  if  you  had 
wished  to  spend  your  shilling  in  something  else.  And 
now,  remember,  you  must  not  change  your  mind ; 
papa  is  going  to  the  town  to-morrow,  you  may  go 
with  him  and  get  one  then.' 

To-morrow  came,  and  with  it  a  note  to  me  from 
my  two  cousins,  saying  that  they  were  coming  over 
to  spend  the  afternoon  with  me,  and  see  my  Indian 
corn,  and  my  tobacco  plants,  which  I  had  planted 
myself. 

I  was  very  proud  of  my  corn,  and  still  more  proud 
that  my  cousins  should  think  it  worth  while  to  come 
and  see  it,  for  they  were  three  or  four  years  older 
than  myself,  and  did  not  often  take  part  in  my  amuse- 
ments. 

By  dint  of  great  industry  I  finished  my  lessons  an 
hour  earlier  than  usual,  and  ran  into  the  garden  to  see 
how  my  corn  looked.  Old  gardener  himself  admitted 
that  it  was  beautiful ;  the  glossy,  green  leaves  fell 
back  like  silken  streamers,  and  displayed  the  grain 
with  its  many  shades  of  green,  gold,  and  brown. 

I  thought  how  delightful  it  would  be  if  I  could 
build  a  kind  of  bower  over  against  it,  in  which  my 
cousins  could  sit  and  admire  it  at  their  leisure.  There 
were  some  hop  plants  growing  just  in  the  right  place  ; 
I  had  only  to  untwist  them  ;  and  there  was  a  clematis 
that  could  easily  be  pressed  into  the  service. 
205 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

I  set  to  work,  and,  with  a  little  help  from  gardener, 
soon  made  two  or  three  low  arches,  over  which  I 
carefully  trained  the  flowering  hops,  and  mingled 
them  with  festoons  of  clematis.  The  bower  seemed 
to  be  worthy  of  a  queen  at  the  least ;'  and  no  doubt  it 
was  really  pretty. 

I  was  just  carrying  some  pots  of  balsams  in  flower 
to  set  at  the  entrance,  when  my  father  came  up. 
'  Well,  Orris,'  he  said,  '  mamma  tells  me  you  want  to 
go  to  the  town.  Be  quick  if  you  do,  for  I  am  just 
ready  to  start.' 

'Just  ready  !  O,  papa,  surely  it  is  not  one  o'clock? 
If  I  go  this  bower  will  never  be  finished  by  three.' 

'  Certainly  not,  we  shall  scarcely  be  home  by  three ; 
but  why  need  it  be  finished  ? ' 

'  Don't  'you  remember,  papa,  that  Elsy  and  Anne 
are  coming  ? ' 

'  O,  I  had  forgotten  that  important  fact.  Well, 
then,  if  they  are  to  sit  in  this  bower,  I  think  you  must 
stay  at  home  and  finish  it ;  you  can  go  with  me  some 
other  day.' 

Now  my  father  knew  nothing  about  the  Testament, 
or  he  would  doubtless  have  given  different  advice. 
While  I  hesitated,  anxious  to  stay,  and  yet  afraid  not 
to  go,  my  mother  drew  near,  and  I  thought  I  would 
leave  it  to  her  to  decide. 

'  The  child  wants  to  finish  her  bower,  my  dear,' 
said  my  father, '  therefore,  as  it  is  not  particularly  con- 
venient to  me  to  have  her  to-day,  she  may  stay  at 
home  if  she  likes,  for,  I  presume,  her  errand  is  of  no 
great  consequence.' 

My  mother  made  no  answer ;  in  another  moment 
206 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

he  was  gone,  and  I  was  left  with  a  long  hop  tendril  in 
my  hand,  and  a  face  flushed  with  heat  and  agitation. 

I  thought  my  mother  would  speak,  and  advise  me 
to  run  after  my  father,  but  she  did  not ;  and  I  went  on 
with  my  work*  conscious  that  her  eyes  were  upon 
me. 

Presently,  to  my  great  relief,  gardener  came  up, 
and  asked  her  some  questions  about  the  flower-beds. 
She  went  away  with  him,  and  I  breathed  more  freely, 
comforting  myself  with  the  thought  that  I  could  easily 
buy  the  Testament  another  day. 

I  worked  faster  than  ever,  partly  to  drive  away 
reproachful  thoughts.  The  little  bower  was  lovely,  it 
was  scarcely  high  enough  for  me  to  stand  upright  in, 
but  it  would  be  delightful  I  knew  for  us  to  sit  under. 
Gardener  had  been  mowing,  and  when  I  had  brought 
a  quantity  of  sun-dried  grass,  and  spread  it  thickly 
over  the  floor,  I  thought  my  bower  an  eighth  wonder 
of  the  world.  My  cousins  came  shortly,  and  con- 
firmed me  in  this  opinion  ;  they  spent  a  very  happy 
afternoon,  seated  under  it ;  and,  but  for  remembering 
the  Irish  boy,  I  might  have  been  happy  also.  We 
wei'e  very  quiet  till  after  tea,  and  then  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  our  high  spirits  quite  carried  us  away ;  we 
got  into  mischief,  and  my  share  of  it  was  throwing  an 
apple  into  the  greenhouse,  and  breaking  two  panes  of 
glass.  This  was  on  a  Saturday. 

On  Sunday  no  one  mentioned  either  this  or  the  Irish 
boy  ;  but  on  Monday,  just  as  I  had  finished' my  lessons, 
I  saw  my  father  pass  the  window,  and  ventured  to  ask 
mamma  if  he  was  going  to  the  town,  and  whether  I 
might  walk  with  him. 

207 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

'Why  do  you  wish  to  go,  Orris?'  she  inquired. 

'  To  buy  the  Testament,  mamma,  for  poor  Tim.' 

'  He  is  gone,  said  my  mother  ;  '  he  went  away  early 
this  morning.' 

I  put  on  my  garden  bonnet,  and  went  out,  with  a 
curious  sensation,  as  if,  when  I  did  wrong,  all  circum- 
stances conspired  to  punish  me.  I  turned  the  corner 
of  the  greenhouse,  and  there  stood  my  father,  looking 
at  the  broken  panes. 

'  Orris,'  he  said,  '  did  you  do  this  mischief? ' 

'  Yes,  papa.' 

'This  is  the  third  time  it  has  happened.  I  have 
repeatedly  forbidden  you  to  play  in  this  part  of  the 
garden.' 

'  I  am  very  sorry,  papa.' 

'  Your  sorrow  will  not  mend  the  glass,  and  I  am 
afraid  it  will  not  make  you  more  obedient  another 
time.' 

He  spoke  so  gravely,  that  I  knew  he  really  was  dis- 
pleased. After  a  pause,  he  said,  — 

'  Have  you  got  any  money  ? ' 

'  I  have  a  shilling,  papa,  and  a  penny.' 

'  It  will  cost  more  than  that  to  repair  this  damage  ; 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  claim  forfeit  of  the  shilling.' 

I  wiped  away  two  or  three  tears,  and  produced  my 
little  silk  bag  ;  he  turned  it  over,  and  bit  his  lips  ;  per- 
haps its  elaborate  workmanship  made  him  understand 
that  a  shilling  was  much  more  for  me  to  give  up  than 
for  him  to  receive. 

'Is  this  all  you  have  got?'  he  inquired. 

'  Excepting  the  penny,  papa,'  I  replied  ;  and,  child 
as  I  was,  I  perfectly  understood  his  vexation  at  having 
208 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

to  take  it  from  me.  He  remained  so  long  looking  at 
it  as  it  lay  in  his  palm,  that  I  even  hoped  he  would 
return  it,  and  say  he  would  excuse  me  that  once.  But 
no,  he  was  too  wise  ;  he  put  it  at  last  into  his  waist- 
coat pocket,  and  walked  away,  saying,  '  I  hope  this 
will  make  you  more  careful  another  time.' 

He  went  towards  the  house,  and  I  watched  him  till 
he  entered.  Then  I  ran  to  my  bower,  sat  down  upon 
the  dried  grass,  and  began  to  cry  as  if  my  heart  would 
break. 

Repentance  and  regret,  though  they  may  be  keenly 
felt  by  a  child,  are  not  reasoned  on  very  distinctly. .  I 
had  often  been  very  sorry  before,  but  whether  for  the 
fault,  as  distinct  from  the  punishment,  I  had  scarcely 
inquired.  I  was  heartily  sorry  now,  not  only  for  my 
disobedience,  and  because  my  father  had  foi'feited  the 
shilling,  but  because  I  saw  it  had  vexed  and  hurt  him 
to  do  it  —  not  only  because  I  had  preferred  pleasure 
to  duty,  neglected  the  opportunity  for  doing  good,  and 
lost  it  —  but  because  the  feeling,  if  not  the  words  of 
St.  Paul  pressed  heavily  upon  my  heart :  '  When  I 
would  do  good,  evil  is  present  with  me.' 

I  was  still  crying,  when,  on  a  sudden,  looking  up,  I 
saw  my  father  standing  before  me,  and  watching  me 
with  evident  regret.  My  first  impulse  was  to  say,  '  O, 
papa,  I  was  not  crying  about  the  shilling.' 

He  beckoned  me  to  rise  out  of  my  bower,  and  said, 
'  Then  what  were  you  crying  about,  my  little  darling  ? ' 

I  tried  not  to  sob  ;  he  led  me  to  a  garden  seat  and 
took  me  on  his  knee  ;  then,  with  a  great  many  tears,  I 
told  him  all  that  I  have  now  been  telling  you,  and 
ended  with  a  passion  of  crying.  O,  papa,  do  teach 

209 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

me  to  be  different,  and  to  wish  the  same  thing  when  I 
iim  tempted,  that  I  do  when  no  pleasure  tempts  me. 
Pray  teach  me  to  do  good.' 

'  My  dear  child,  God  is  teaching  you  now.' 

'  What,  papa  ?  when  my  golden  opportunity  is  gone, 
and  my  silver  opportunity  has  come  to  nothing?' 

'  Quite  true  ;  but  then  you  are  doubly  sure  now,  you 
know  by  ample  experience,  do  you  not  —  that  of  your- 
self you  can  do  nothing  ? ' 

I  was  so  convinced  of  it,  that  I  was  verging  on  an 
opposite  fault  of  self-confidence.  I  was  almost  doubt- 
ing whether  any  assistance  that  I  could  hope  to  have 
would  make  me  proof  against  temptation. 

But  now  was  my  father's  '  golden  opportunity,'  and 
he  availed  himself  of  it.  Although  I  cannot  remem- 
ber his  words,  their  influence  remains  to  this  day. 
Certain  sensations  and  impressions  connected  with 
that  wise  and  fatherly  conversation  return  upon  me 
often,  even  now.  It  conveyed  to  my  mind  the  idea 
that  this  weakness  itself  was  to  be  my  strength,  if  it 
made  me  depend  upon  a  stronger  than  myself;  that 
this  changeable  disposition  would  make  more  precious 
to  me  the  knowledge  that  '  with  God  is  no  variable- 
ness, neither  shadow  of  changing.' 

When  he  ceased  to  speak,  I  said,  with  a  sorrowful 
sigh,  '  And  now,  papa,  there  is  only  one  penny  left  of 
all  my  opportunities  ! ' 

'  Well,  my  darling,'  he  replied,  '  it  is  possible  that 
you  may  do  acceptable  good  even  with  that.  Re- 
member what  our  Saviour  said  about  the  cup  of  cold 
water.' 

'  Yes,'  I  said ;  '  but  the  person  who  gave  the  cold 

2IO 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

water  had  nothing  better  to  give  ;  he  had  not  a  cup 
of  milk,  or  a  cup  of  wine,  which  he  first  wasted  and 
threw  away.* 

'  My  dear,  you  need  not  inquire  into  that ;  you  might 
have  done  better  ;  but  as  there  it  still  something  to  be 
done,  "  do  it  with  thy  might."  ' 

When  I  was  quite  calm  again,  and  almost  happy,  he 
sent  me  into  the  house  to  play  at  ball.  As  I  passed 
the  kitchen  door,  a  poor  old  woman,  whom  my  mother 
used  sometimes  to  help,  turned  from  it,  and  I  heard 
the  housemaid  say,  '  Mistress  has  just  walked  out,  and 
I  cannot  say  when  she  will  be  at  home.' 

She  was  hobbling  away,  when  I  bethought  me  of 
my  penny,  took  it  out  of  its  bag,  and  pulling  her  by 
the  cloak,  offered  it  to  her. 

At  first  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  me,  but 
when  she  saw  my  copper  opportunity,  which  was  as 
bright  as  sand-paper  could  render  it,  she  gave  me  just 
the  shadow  of  a  smile,  and  taking  it  in  her  skinny 
hand,  said,  '  I  thank  you  kindly,  my  pretty.' 

'  Poor  old  creature,'  said  the  housemaid,  '  that  will 
buy  her  a  trifle,  mayhap  ;  she  and  her  husband  are 
going  into  the  workhouse  to-morrow.' 

I  passed  into  the  house  penniless,  but  in  a  subdued 
and  humble  state  of  mind.  The  lessons  I  had  had 
were  not  without  good  effect ;  but  it  cannot  be  expected 
that  I  can  remember  much  of  the  working  of  my 
mind.  I  only  know  that  time  did  pass ;  that  I  went 
to  bed,  got  up,  said  my  lessons,  and  had  my  play  for 
a  long  time,  perhaps  a  fortnight.  At  the  end  of  about 
that  time  my  little  sister  Sophy  and  I  went  out  one 
day  for  a  long  walk  with  Matilda,  our  nurse,  and  took 

211 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

a  basket  with  us  to  put  flowers  in,  and  blackberries, 
if  we  should  be  so  fortunate  as  to  find  any. 

We  walked  a  long  way  till  Sophy  was  tired,  and 
became  clamorous  to  sit  clown  ;  so  Matilda  led  us  to 
the  entrance  of  a  wood,  and  there  we  sat  and  rested 
on  the  steps  of  a  stile.  There  was  a  cottage  near  at 
hand ;  presently  an  old  woman  came  out  with  a  kettle 
in  her  hand,  and  I  recognized  her  as  the  woman  to 
whom  I  had  given  my  penny.  She  hobbled  to  the 
edge  of  a  little  stream  which  flowed  close  to  our  seat, 
and  dipped  her  kettle  in,  but  did  not  notice  us  till 
Matilda  called  her. 

'  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Grattan,  and  how's  your  old 
gentleman  ? ' 

'  Thank  you  kindly,  girl,  we  be  pretty  moderate,' 
was  the  reply.  '  He,'  and  she  pointed  with  her  stick 
to  a  field  opposite,  where  several  men  were  at  work, 
'  he  be  among  them  picking  up  stones  —  ha  !  ha  !  He 
be  as  blithe  as  a  boy.' 

'  We  was  all  very  glad  up  at  the  Grange  to  hear  of 
your  good  luck,'  said  Matilda,  in  the  loudest  tones  of 
her  cheerful  voice,  for  the  old  woman  was  rather  deaf. 
'  Our  mistress  was  main  glad,  I'll  assure  you.' 

'  Ah  !  very  kind  on  you  all.  How  be  the  old  gen- 
tleman?' 

'  Quite  hearty.' 

By  this  time  she  had  reached  us,  set  down  her  ket- 
tle, and  taken  her  place  beside  Matilda.  I  was  busily 
plaiting  straw,  but  I  listened  carelessly  to  their  con- 
versation. 

'  And  so  you  got  your  rent  paid  and  all,'  said  Ma- 
212 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

tilda,  turning  her  eager  black  eyes  on  the  old  woman. 
'  What  a  good  son  Joe  is  to  you  ! ' 

'  Ah,  that  he  be,  dear,'  was  the  reply  ;  '  that  he  be  ; 
wrote  he  did,  so  pretty,  "  My  dear  mother,"  he  says, 
"  don't  you  go  for  to  think  I  shall  ever  forget  how 
good  you  was  to  me  always,  for  I  shall  not,"  he 
says ' — 

Matilda's  eyes  flashed  and  glistened ;  she  took  a 
particular  interest  in  this  young  man,  though  I  did  not 
know  that  till  long  afterwards. 

'  Tell  us  how  it  all  was  ! '  she. said,  quickly. 

'  Why,  you  see,  dear,  he  .was  not  my  own,  but  I  did 
as  well  as  I  could  by  him ;  and  he  be  as  fond  of  me 
like,  ay,  fonder,  than  he  be  of  his  father.' 

'  Yes,  I  know,'  said  Matilda. 

'  Well,  dear,  I  went  to  Mr.  T.'s  house '  (my  father's), 
'  and  I  was  very  down  at  heart  —  very,  I  was  ;  for 
Mr.  Ball,  he'd  been  that  morning,  and  says  he,  "  It 
signifies  nothing  that  you've  lived  here  so  long,"  he 
says,  "  if  you  can't  pay  the  rent."  I  says,  "  Mr.  Ball, 
will  you  please  to  consider  these  weeks  and  weeks  that 
my  poor  old  man  has  been  laid  up  wi'  rheumatize." 
"  But,"  he  says,  "  I  can  put  in  younger  and  stronger 
than  him  ;  and  besides  that,"  he  says,  "  I  know  you 
owe  money  at  the  shop,  over  all  you  owe  to  my  em- 
ployer." ' 

'  He  was  always  a  hard  man,'  said  Matilda. 

'  Well,  dear,  he  says,  "  It  ain't  no  use  my  deceiving 
of  you,  Mrs.  Grattan,  but  I  must  sell  you  up,  for," 
says  he,  "  the  money  I  must  have,  and  you  must  go 
into  the  workhouse  ;  it's  the  best  place  by  half  for  such 
as  you."  And,  dear,  it  seemed  hard,  for,  I'll  assure 
213 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

you,  we  hadn't  a  half-ounce  of  tea,  nor  a  lump  of  coal 
in  the  house,  for  we  was  willing,  my  old  man  and  me, 
to  strive  to  the  last  to  pay  our  owings,  and  we  was 
living  very  hard.' 

'  How  much  did  you  owe?'  asked  Matilda. 

'  Over  thi'ee  pounds,  dear ;  and  then  the  rent  was 
four.  I  hadn't  one  half-penny  in  the  house  ;  I  paid  the 
baker  Thursday  was  a  week  ;  t'other  four  was  for  the 
doctor,  and  we  was  hungry  and  cold,  we  was ;  but  the 
Lord  be  praised,  we  ain't  now.' 

'  Ah  !  Joe's  a  good  son.' 

'  As  good  as  ever  breathed,  dear ;  but  we  hadn't 
heard  from  him  of  a  long  while,  by  reason  his  regi- 
ment was  up  the  country,  but  you'll  understand  I 
didn't  know  that  till  I  got  his  letter.  And  so  we  was 
to  be  sold  up,  and  go  into  the  House.  I  fretted  a  deal, 
and  then  I  thought  I'd  go  and  tell  your  missis  —  she 
be  a  good  friend.  But  deary  me !  I  owed  such  a 
world  o'  money ;  only,  thinks  I,  she'll  be  main  sorry  to 
hear  we  must  go,  and  a  body  likes  somebody  to  be 
sorry.' 

'  Ah  !  to  be  sure  they  do,'  said  Matilda. 

'  But  she  was  out,  and  so  I  got  nothing,  only  this 
child,  bless  her  !  she  runs  up  and  gives  me  a  penny  ; 
but,  deary  me,  thinks  I,  what's  a  penny  to  them  as 
owes  £7,  2S.  But,  thinks  I,  my  old  man  and  me,  we 
won't  cry  together  in  the  dark  this  last  night ;  so  I 
walked  on  to  the  town  with  it  to  buy  a  half-penny 
candle  of  Mr.  Sims  at  the  post-office.  I  was  halfway 
there  from  my  place,  and  when  I  got  into  the  shop, 
"  Sit  you  down,  Mrs.  Grattan,"  says  he,  for  he  saw  I 
was  main  tired  ;  "  I  haven't  seen  you  of  a  long  time." 
214 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

'  "  And  that's  true,  Mr.  Sims,"  says  I,  "  for  it's  little 
enough  I  have  to  lay  out,  and  the  shop  t'other  side  of 
the  turnpike  be  nigher." 

'  Well,  I  sat  me  down  ;  maybe  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
after  I'd  bought  my  candle,  and  just  as  I  was  a-going, 
in  comes  Mrs.  Sims,  and,  says  she,  "  Is  that  Grattan's 
wife?" 

'  "  Ay,"  says  he. 

'  "  Well,"  says  she,  "  I  reckon  you  remembered  to 
give  her  that  letter." 

'  "  A  good  thing  you  spoke,  my  dear,"  says  he,  "  I 
should  have  forgot  it  —  that  I  should." 

4  If  you'll  believe  me,  I  trembled  like  a  leaf,  to  think 
I  should  so  near  have  missed  it.  "Be  it  a  letter  from 
the  Indies  ?  "  says  I. 

'  "  Ay,"  says  he,  "  that  it  is,  and  nothing  to  pay  on 
it ;  and  it's  marked,  '  To  be  left  at  the  post-office  till 
called  for.' " 

'  Well,  dear,  I  took  it  home,  and  waited  for  my  old 
man  to  come  home,  by  reason  I  can't  read,  and  about 
dusk  he  comes  in,  and  we  lights  the  candle,  and  my 
old  man  he  read  it  right  out,  for  he's  a  fine  scholar. 
And  there  was  two  five-pound  notes  inside,  bless  him  ; 
and  he  says,  "Mother,  I've  got  made  sergeant,  and 
now  I  shall  send  to  you  regular." ' 

'  Well,  I've  heard  no  better  news  this  many  a  day  ! ' 
said  Matilda. 

'  It  was  good,  dear.  Well,  I  paid  the  doctor,  and 
when  Mr.  Ball  came  next  day,  says  I,  "  There's  the 
money,  sir,"  and  he  stared.  "  Indeed,"  he  says  ;  "  I 
am  surprised,  but  them  that  pay  can  stay."  So,  you 
see,  there's  money  to  spend,  more  money,  dear,  when 
215 


THE    GOLDEN    OPPORTUNITY. 

we  be  laid  up  with  the  rheumatize."  Upon  this  she 
laughed  with  genuine  joy,  and,  taking  up  her  kettle, 
wished  Matilda  good  afternoon,  and  hobbled  away. 

And  I  knew,  though  it  had  never  occurred  to  the 
old  woman,  that  all  this  happiness  was  owing  to  my 
penny !  If  she  had  not  had  it  to  spend,  she  would 
not  have  walked  to  the  post-office,  she  would  not  have 
got  her  son's  letter  —  that  precious  letter  which  had 
saved  her  from  misery  and  the  workhouse. 

How  happy  I  was  as  we  walked  home  ;  I  seemed  to 
tread  on  air,  and  yet  I  knew  of  how  little  value  the 
penny  really  was  ;  it  was  only  my  having  been  permit- 
ted to  give  it  under  such  peculiar  circumstances  that 
had  made  it  such  a  worthy  and  important  coin. 

The  lesson  taught  me  by  these  little  events  I  did 
not  easily  forget,  and  I  think  their  moral  is  too  obvious 
to  need  elaborate  enforcing.  It  may,  however,  be 
summed  up  in  few  words. 

First,  —  Do  not  expect  that  in  your  own  strength 
you  can  make  use  of  even  the  best  opportunity  for 
doing  good. 

Second,  —  Do  not  put  off  till  another  day  any  good 
which  it  is  in  the  power  of  your  hand  to  do  at  once. 

And  thirdly,  —  Do  not  despond  because  your 
means  of  doing  good  appear  trifling  and  insignificant, 
for  though  one  soweth  and  another  reapeth,  yet  it  is 
God  that  giveth  the  increase ;  and  who  can  tell 
whether  He  will  not  cause  that  which  is  sown  to  bear 
fruit  an  hundred  fold ;  who  can  tell  whether  to  have 
even  a  penny  to  give  under  certain  circumstances  may 
not  be  to  have  no  Copper  —  but  a  Golden  Opportunity. 
216 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

THE  charity  of  the  rich  is  much  to  be  commend- 
ed, but  how  beautiful  is  the  charity  of  the  poor ! 

Call  to  mind  the  coldest  day  you  ever  experienced. 
Think  of  the  bitter  wind  and  driving  snow ;  think 
how  you  shook  and  shivered  —  how  the  sharp  white 
particles  were  driven  up  against  your  face  —  how, 
within  doors,  the  carpets  were  lifted  like  billows  along 
the  floors,  the  wind  howled  and  moaned  in  the  chim- 
neys, windows  creaked,  doors  rattled,  and  every  now 
and  then  heavy  lumps  of  snow  came  thundering  down 
with  a  dull  weight  from  the  roof. 

Now  hear  my  story. 

In  one  of  the  broad,  open  plains  of  Lincolnshire, 
there  is  a  long,  reedy  sheet  of  water,  a  favorite  resort 
of  wild  ducks.  At  its  northern  extremity  stand  two 
mud  cottages,  old  and  out  of  repair. 

One  bitter,  bitter  night,  when  the  snow  lay  three 
feet  deep  on  the  ground,  and  a  cutting  east  wind  was 
driving  it  about,  and  whistling  in  the  dry  frozen  reeds 
by  the  water's  edge,  and  swinging  the  bare  willow  trees 
till  their  branches  swept  the  ice,  an  old  woman  sat 
spinning  in  one  of  these  cottages  before  a  moderately 
10  217 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

cheerful  fire.  Her  kettle  was  singing  on  the  coals ; 
she  had  a  reed-candle,  or  home-made  rushlight  on  her 
table,  but  the  full  moon  shone  in,  and  was  the  brighter 
light  of  the  two.  These  two  cottages  were  far  from 
any  road,  or  any  other  habitation ;  the  old  woman 
was,  therefore,  surprised,  as  she  sat  drawing  out  her 
thread,  and  crooning  an  old  north-country  song,  to 
hear  a  sudden  knock  at  the  door. 

It  was  loud  and  impatient,  not  like  the  knock  of 
her  neighbors  in  the  other  cottage  ;  but  the  door  was 
bolted,  and  the  old  woman  rose,  and  shuffling  to  the 
window,  looked  out,  and  saw  a  shivering  figure,  ap- 
parently that  of  a  youth. 

'  Trampers  ! '  said  the  old  woman,  sententiously  ; 
'  tramping  folk  be  not  wanted  here  ; '  so  saying,  she 
went  back  to  the  fire  without  deigning  to  answer  the 
door. 

The  youth,  upon  this,  tried  the  door,  and  called  to 
her  to  beg  admittance.  She  heard  him  rap  the  snow 
from  his  shoes  against  her  lintel,  and  again  knock  as 
if  he  thought  she  was  deaf,  and  he  should  surely  gain 
admittance  if  he  could  only  make  her  hear. 

The  old  woman,  surprised  at  his  audacity,  went  to 
the  casement,  and,  with  all  pride  of  possession,  opened 
it,  and  inquired  his  business. 

'  Good  woman,'  the  stranger  began,  '  I  only  want  a 
seat  at  your  fire.' 

'  Nay,'  said  the  old  woman,  giving  effect  to  her 
words  by  her  uncouth  dialect,  '  thoul't  get  no  shelter 
here ;  I've  nought  to  give  to  beggars  —  a  dirty,  wet 
critter]  she  continued,  wrathfully,  slamming  to  the 
window ;  '  it's  a  wonder  where  he  found  any  water, 
218 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

too,  seeing  it  freezes  so  hard,  a  body  can  get  none  for 
the  kettle,  saving  whaf  s  broken  up  with  a  hatchet.' 

On  this  the  beggar  turned  hastily  away. 

And  at  this  point  in  his  narrative,  the  person  who 
told  it  me  stopped  and  said,  '  Do  you  think  the  old 
woman  was  very  much  to  blame  ? ' 

'  She  might  have  acted  more  kindly,'  I  replied  ;  '  but 
why  do  you  ask  ?  ' 

'  Because,'  said  he,  '  I  have  heard  her  conduct  so 
much  I'eflected  on  by  some  who  would  have  thought 
nothing  of  it  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  consequences.' 

'  She  might  have  turned  him  away  less  roughly,'  I 
observed. 

'  That  is  true,'  he  answered  ;  '  but,  in  any  case,  I 
think,  though  we  might  give  them  food  or  money,  we 
should  hardly  invite  beggars  in  to  sit  by  the  fire.' 

'  Certainly  not,'  I  replied  ;  '  and  this  woman  could 
not  tell  that  the  beggar  was  honest.' 

'  No,'  said  he ;  '  but  I  must  go  on  with  my  narra- 
tive.' 

The  stranger  turned  very  hastily  from  her  door,  and 
waded  through  the  deep  snow  towards  the  other  cot- 
tage. The  bitter  wind  helped  to  drive  him  towards 
it.  It  looked  no  less  poor  than  the  first ;  and,  when 
he  had  tried  the  door,  found  it  bolted,  and  knocked 
twice  without  attracting  attention,  his  heart  sank 
within  him.  His  hand  was  so  numbed  with  cold, 
that  he  had  made  scarcely  any  noise  ;  he  tried  again. 

A  rush  candle  was  burning  within,  and  a  matronly- 
looking  -woman  sat  before  the  fire.  She  held  an  infant 
in  her  arms,  and  had  dropped  asleep  ;  but  his  third 
knock  roused  her,  and,  wrapping  her  apron  round  the 
219 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

child,  she  opened  the  door  a  very  little  way,  and  de- 
manded what  he  wanted. 

'  Good  woman,'  the  youth  began,  '  I  have  had  the 
misfortune  to  fall  in  the  water  this  bitter  night,  and  I 
am  so  numbed  that  I  can  scarcely  walk.' 

The  woman  gave  him  a  sudden,  earnest  look,  and 
then  sighed. 

'  Come  in,'  she  said ;  '  thou  art  so  nigh  the  size  of 
my  Jem,  I  thought  at  first  it  was  him  come  home  from 
sea.' 

The  youth  stepped  across  the  threshold,  trembling 
with  cold  and  wet;  and  no  wonder,  for  his  clothes 
were  completely  encased  in  wet  mud,  and  the  water 
dripped  from  them  with  every  step  he  took  on  the 
sanded  floor. 

'  Thou  art  in  a  sorry  plight,'  said  the  woman,  '  and 
it  be  two  miles  to  the  nighest  housen  ;  come  and  kneel 
down  afore  the  fire  ;  thy  teeth  chatter  so  pitifully,  I 
can  scarce  bear  to  hear  them.' 

She  looked  at  him  more  attentively,  and  saw  that  he 
was  a  mere  boy,  not  more  than  sixteen  years  of  age. 
Her  motherly  heart  was  touched  for  him.  '  Art  hun- 
gry?' she  asked,  turning  to  the  table;  'thou  art  wet 
to  the  skin.  What  hast  been  doing?' 

'  Shooting  wild  ducks,'  said  the  boy. 

'  O,'  said  his  hostess,  '  thou  art  one  of  the  keepers' 
boys,  then,  I  reckon?' 

He  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  and  saw  two 
portions  of  bread  set  upon  the  table,  with  a  small  piece 
of  bacon  upon  each. 

'  My  master  be  very  late,'  she  observed,  for  charity 
did  not  make  her  use  elegant  language,  and  by  her 
220 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

master  she  meant  her  husband  ;  '  but  thou  art  welcome 
to  my  bit  and  sup,  for  I  was  waiting  for  him  ;  maybe 
it  will  put  a  little  warmth  in  thee  to  eat  and  drink ; ' 
so  saying,  she  took  up  a  mug  of  beer  from  the  hearth, 
and  pushed  it  towards  him,  with  her  share  of  the 
supper. 

'  Thank  you,'  said  the  boy,  '  but  I  am  so  wet  I  am 
making  quite  a  pool  before  your  fire  with  the  drip- 
pings from  my  clothes.' 

'  Ay,  thou  art  wet,  indeed,'  said  the  woman,  and, 
rising  again,  she  went  to  an  old  box,  in  which  she  be- 
gan to  search,  and  presently  came  to  the  fire  with  a 
perfectly  clean  checked  shirt  in  her  hand,  and  a  toler- 
ably good  suit  of  clothes. 

'  There,'  said  she,  showing  them  with  no  small 
pride,  '  these  be  my  master's  Sunday  clothes,  and  if 
thou  wilt  be  very  careful  of  them,  I'll  let  thee  wear 
them  till  thine  be  dry.'  She  then  explained  that  she 
was  going  to  put  her  '  bairn '  to  bed,  and  proceeded 
up  a  ladder  into  the  room  above,  leaving  the  boy  to 
array  himself  in  these  respectable  and  desirable  gar- 
ments. 

When  she  came  down  her  guest  had  dressed  him- 
self in  the  laborer's  clothes  ;  he  had  had  time  to  warm 
himself,  and  he  was  eating  and  drinking  with  hungry 
relish.  He  had  thrown  his  muddy  clothes  in  a  heap 
upon  the  floor,  and,  as  she  proceeded  to  lift  them  up, 
she  said,  '  Ah  !  lad,  lad,  I  doubt  thy  head  has  been 
under  water  ;  thy  poor  mother  would  have  been  sorely 
frightened  if  she  could  have  seen  thee  awhile  ago.' 

'  Yes,'  said  the  boy ;  and,  in  imagination,  the  cot- 
tage dame  saw  this  said  mother,  a  care-worn,  hard- 

221 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

working  creature  like  herself  ;  while  the  youjthful 
guest  saw,  in  imagination,  a  beautiful  and  courtly 
lady  ;  and  both  saw  the  same  love,  the  same  anxiety, 
the  same  terror  at  sight  of  a  lonely  boy  struggling  in 
the  moonlight  through  breaking  ice,  with  no  one  to 
help  him,  catching  at  the  frozen  reeds,  and  then  creep- 
ing up,  shivering  and  benumbed,  to  a  cottage  door. 

But  even  as  she  stooped  the  woman  forgot  her  im- 
agination, for  she  had  taken  a  waistcoat  into  her  hands, 
such  as  had  never  passed  between  them  before  ;  a 
gold  pencil-case  dropped  from  the  pocket,  and,  on 
the  floor,  among  a  heap  of  mud  that  covered  the  outer 
garments,  lay  a  white  shirt-sleeve,  so  white,  indeed, 
and  fine,  that  she  thought  it  could  hardly  be  worn  but 
by  a  squire  ! 

She  glanced  from  the  clothes  to  the  owner.  He 
had  thrown  down  his  cap,  and  his  fair,  curly  hair,  and 
broad  forehead,  convinced  her  that  he  was  of  gentle 
birth  ;  but  while  she  hesitated  to  sit  down,  he  set  a 
chair  for  her,  and  said,  with  boyish  frankness,  '  I  say, 
what  a  lonely  place  this  is ;  if  you  had  not  let  me  in, 
the  water  would  have  all  frozen  on  me  before  I  reached 
home.  Catch  me  duck-shooting  again  by  myself ! ' 

'  It's  very  cold  sport  that,  sir,'  said  the  woman. 

The  young  gentleman  assented  most  readily,  and 
asked  if  he  might  stir  the  fire. 

'  And  welcome,  sir,'  said  the  woman.  She  felt  a 
curiosity  to  know  who  he  was,  and  he  partly  satisfied 
her  by  remarking  that  he  was  staying  at  Been  Hall,  a 
house  about  five  miles  off.  adding  that,  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  had  broken  a  hole  in  the  ice  very  near  the  de- 
coy, but  it  had  iced  over  so  fast,  that  in  the  dusk  he 

222  . 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

had  missed  it  and  fallen  in,  for  it  would  not  bear  him. 
He  had  made  some  landmarks,  and  taken  every  proper 
precaution,  but  he  supposed  the  sport  had  excited 
him  so  much  that,  in  the  moonlight,  he  had  passed 
them  by. 

He  then  told  her  of  his  attempt  to  get  shelter  in  the 
other  cottage. 

'  Sir,'  said  the  woman,  '  if  you  had  said  you  were  a 
gentleman '  — 

The  boy  laughed.  '  I  don't  think  I  knew  it,  my 
good  woman,'  he  replied,  '  my  senses  were  so  be- 
numbed ;  for  I  was  some  time  struggling  at  the 
water's  edge  among  the  broken  ice,  and  then  I  believe 
I  was  nearly  an  hour  creeping  up  to  your  cottage  door. 
I  remember  it  all  rather  indistinctly,  but  as  soon  as  I 
had  felt  the  fire,  and  drank  the  warm  beer,  I  was  a 
different  creature.' 

While  they  still  talked  the  husband  came  in,  and, 
while  he  was  eating  his  supper,  they  agreed  that  he 
should  walk  to  Deen  Hall,  and  let  its  inmates  know 
of  the  gentleman's  safety  ;  and  when  he  was  gone  they 
made  up  the  fire  with  all  the  coal  that  remained  to 
that  poor  household,  and  the  woman  crept  up  to  bed 
and  left  her  guest  to  lie  down  and  rest  before  it. 

In  the  gray  of  dawn  the  laborer  returned,  with  a 
servant  leading  a  horse,  and  bringing  a  fresh  suit  of 
clothes. 

The  young  gentleman  took  his  leave  with  many 
thanks,  slipping  three  half-crowns  into  the  woman's 
hand,  probably  all  the  money  he  had  about  him.  And  I 
must  not  forget  to  mention  that  he  kissed  the  baby,  for 
when  she  tells  the  story,  the  mother  always  adverts  to 
223 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

that  circumstance  with  great  pride,  adding,  that  her 
child  being  as  '  clean  as  wax,  was  quite  fit  to  be  kissed 
by  anybody ! ' 

'  Missis,'  said  her  husband,  as  they  stood  together  in 
the  doorway,  looking  after  their  guest,  '  who  dost  think 
that  be?' 

'  I  don't  know,'  answered  the  missis. 

'  Then  I'll  just  tell  thee,  that  be  young  Lord  W ; 

so  thou  mayst  be  a  proud  woman  ;  thou  sits  and  talks 
with  lords,  and  asks  them  in  to  supper  —  ha,  ha  ! '  So 
saying,  her  master  shouldered  his  spade  and  went  his 
way,  leaving  her  clinking  the  three  half-crowns  in  her 
hand,  and  considering  what  she  should  do  with  them. 
Her  neighbor  from  the  other  cottage  presently  stepped 
in,  and  when  she  heard  the  tale  and  saw  the  money, 
her  heart  was  ready  to  break  with  envy  and  jealousy. 
'  O  !  to  think  that  good  luck  should  have  come  to  her 
door,  and  she  should  have  been  so  foolish  as  to  turn 
it  away.  Seven  shillings  and  sixpence  for  a  morsel 
of  food  and  a  night's  shelter ;  why,  it  was  nearly  a 
week's  wages ! ' 

So  there,  as  they  both  supposed,  the  matter  ended, 
and  the  next  week  the  frost  was  sharper  than  ever. 
Sheep  were  frozen  in  the  fenny  fields,  and  poultry  on 
their  perches,  but  the  good  woman  had  walked  to  the 
nearest  town  and  bought  a  blanket.  It  was  a  wel- 
come addition  to  their  bed-covering,  and  it  was  many 
a  long  year  since  they  had  been  so  comfortable. 

But  it  chanced,  one  day  at  noon,  that,  looking  out 

at  her  casement,   she    spied   three  young  gentlemen 

skating   along   the   ice    towards   her   cottage.     They 

sprang  on  to  the  bank,  took  off  their  skates,  and  made 

224 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

for  Ijer  door.  The  young  nobleman  informed  her  that 
he  had  had  such  a  severe  cold  he  could  not  come  and 
see  her  before.  '  He  spoke  as  free  and  pleasantly,'  she 
observed,  in  telling  the  story,  '  as  if  I  had  been  a  lady, 
and  no  less !  and  then  he  brought  a  parcel  out  of  his 

pocket,  "  and  I've  been  over  to  B ,"  he  says,  "  and 

bought  you  a  book  for  a  keepsake,  and  I  hope  you  will 
accept  it."  And  then  they  all  talked  as  pretty  as  could 
be  for  a  matter  of  ten  minutes,  and  went  away.  So  I 
waited  till  my  master  came  home,  and  we  opened  the 
parcel,  and  there  was  a  fine  Bible  inside,  all  over  gold 
and  red  morocco,  and  my  name  and  his  name  written 
inside  ;  and,  bless  him  !  a  ten-pound  note  doubled  down 
over  the  names.  I'm  sure,  when  I  thought  he  was  a 
poor  forlorn  creature,  he  was  kindly  welcome.  So  my 
master  laid  out  part  of  the  money  in  tools,  and  we 
rented  a  garden,  and  he  goes  over  on  market  days  to 
sell  what  we  grow ;  so  now,  thank  God,  we  want  for 
nothing.' 

This  is  how  she  generally  concludes  the  little  his- 
tory, never  failing  to  add  that  the  young  lord  kissed 
her  baby. 

'  But,'  said  my  friend,  '  I  have  not  told  you  what  I 
thought  the  best  part  of  the  anecdote.  When  this 
poor  Christian  woman  was  asked  what  had  induced 
her  to  take  in  a  perfect  stranger,  and  trust  him  with 
the  best  clothing  her  house  afforded,  she  answered 
simply,  Well,  I  saw  him  shivering  arid  shaking,  so  I 
thought  "  thou  shalt  come  in  here  for  the  sake  of  Him 
that  had  not  where  to  lay  His  head." ' 

Now  I  think  we  must  all  have  read  many  times  of 
such  rewards  following  upon  little  acts  of  kindness. 
10  *  225 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

Hundreds  of  tales  are  founded  on  such  incidents,  but, 
in  real  life,  they  are  not  common.  Poetical  justice  is 
not  the  kind  of  justice  that  generally  comes  about  in 
the  order  of  God's  providence.  We  ought  not  to  ex- 
pect such ;  and  woful,  indeed,  must  be  the  disap- 
pointment of  those  who  do  kind  actions  in  the  hope 
of  receiving  it. 

The  old  woman  in  the  other  cottage  may  open  her 
door  every  night  of  her  future  life  to  some  forlorn  beg- 
gar, but  it  is  all  but  certain  that  she  will  never  open  it 
to  a  nobleman  in  disguise !  Therefore,  let  neither 
man,  woman,  nor  child  found  false  hopes  upon  this 
story ;  for,  let  them  entertain  as  many  beggars  as  they 
will,  they  need  not  expect  that  they  have  gold  pencil- 
cases  in  their  pockets  —  unless  they  stole  them. 

These  stories  are,  as  I  said,  very  common,  and 
their  moral  is  sufficiently  obvious  ;  it  is,  '  Do  good, 
and  you  shall  have  your  reward.'  I  would  not  quar- 
rel with  the  maxim,  but  I  should  like  to  see  it  differ- 
ently applied.  I  think  it  arises  from  a  feeling  which 
has  done  harm  rather  than  good.  We  are,  indeed, 
quite  at  liberty  to  use  the  Scriptural  maxim,  '  He  that 
watereth  shall  be  watered  also  himself,'  but  then,  we 
should  give  the  term  '  watereth  '  its  Scriptural  sense  — 
an  extended  and  beautiful  sense. 

The  act  of  chanty  is  often  highly  valued,  while 
the  motive,  which  alone  can  make  it  acceptable,  is 
overlooked  and  forgotten ;  it  is  not  hope  that  should 
prompt  it,  but  gratitude.  Not  many,  even  of  the 
Lord's  people,  can  always  say  in  simplicity,  '  I  did  it 
for  the  sake  of  Him  that  had  not  where  to  lay  His 
head.' 

226 


THE    WILD-DUCK    SHOOTER. 

We  have  strangely  reversed  the  order  of  things. 
We  sometimes  act  as  if  our  feeling  was,  '  Let  us  do 
good  and  give,  that  God,  who  loveth  a  cheerful  giver, 
may  be  good  to  us  ;'  but  our  feeling  should  be, '  Christ 
has  died,  let  us  do  good,  for  his  sake,  to  his  poor 
brethren,  as  an  evidence  that  we  are  grateful  for  his 
inestimable  gift.' 

Let  us  do  good,  not  to  receive  more  good  in  return, 
but  as   an   evidence   of  gratitude  for  what  has  been 
already  bestowed.     In  few  words,  let  it  be  '  all  for 
love,  and  nothing  for  reward.' 
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